Suffering in Silence, Book 3: Breaking Point
by NutsandVolts
Summary: Wiress MacDanielle has come out of the 46th Hunger Games scarred, fragile, yet miraculously alive. Upon her return home to District 3, however, she finds her old life in ruins. Instinctively she turns to the one man she can still trust, but Wiress begins to find it difficult to trust anyone—including herself.
1. Chapter I

**Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for – the first chapter of **_**Breaking Point**_**! *disguises voice* Wendy, you rule! *regular voice* Oh, you're all **_**too **_**kind; you're making me blush! Anyway, here's Chapter I! Now, this **_**is **_**the first chapter of a sequel I've ever done, so I tried to summarize the previous story slightly, but not put in a whole description—do you know what I mean? Anyway, just give me feedback on how I do. :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**The Hunger Games **_**trilogy or any characters related to it. I own this story and its prequel, **_**Breathe**_**, now newly edited.**** Ooh, I love saying that! :D**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

_Tick tock_.

My eyes open.

I stand up in the middle of a clearing in the woods. I know this place; I've been to it so many times before. But only in my dreams.

That's where I am now; in a dream. I've been stuck in this nightmare for years and years; at least, that's what I think. Time has all but lost its meaning.

I'm wearing a long white gown that floats to my bare feet, the skirt and short sleeves made of spider web-like lace. My hair is dark brown and brushes my shoulders and bare back. My eyes are the same color.

My name is Wiress MacDanielle, and I believe I am in hell.

I am a terrified little girl caught in a dark, dangerous world. I am a cold, calculating murderess who will stop at nothing to get her way. I am young, I am old, I am a tender flower that has been caught in a deadly frost.

There is a single path that leads to another clearing. I should not take that path, but the voices compel me to. They whisper their sweet nothings in my ear, telling me to come and play.

I should not go down that path. But I do anyway. I start running.

Those horrible voices get louder, whispering, whispering, telling me to come and play with them, and to follow them. I shouldn't, but I do.

Then I reach the next clearing, larger than the one I left. I fall to the ground, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Then I hear his voice.

Beetee Jarvis's.

He takes my hand and helps me to my feet. I stare into his eyes – those eyes that have seen too much. Beetee's eyes are truly something to marvel, dark, dark brown, windowpanes to reveal his emotions; after winning the 38th Hunger Games his lips refuse to tell anyone anything. Not even me.

He's a little taller than me, with dark brown hair that just touches his shirt collar and pale, pale skin, just like mine.

His touch is very warm, like always. This is the only good part of my dream. Touching him again, feeling his skin on my skin, tasting his unique scent on my tongue.

I wish this moment would last forever. If this moment lasted forever, I could live in this nightmare forever. I'd _prefer _it to my old life.

Because in my old life, Beetee Jarvis is dead.

I loved that man more than anything in the entire world. I still do, actually. Even in this hellish dream world Beetee Jarvis makes my heartbeat quicken and my palms sweat. I ache for him to hold me close and whisper my dead mother's lullaby in my ear:

"_I don't want us to fight because I love you so_

_It's hard on me because I can't let you go_

_When I look in your eyes_

_I find my paradise_

_Forever I will need you by my side_

_My safe haven is lying in your arms_

_Because I know you will protect me from harm_

_If you're to fly away_

_Come back when I say, "Stay"_

_I promise you I'll always do the same_

_Promise me you'll always do the same._"

But this is hell, so he doesn't do that.

In some versions of my recurring nightmare Beetee talks to me, but lately he doesn't. This upsets me; I miss the sound of his low, deep voice, gentle and strong and reassuring. If this decline continues, I'm a few dreams away from not being able to see him, or smell his special scent, or touch his warm skin, or taste his lips.

Because sometimes, he kisses me.

I wish my dreams would include these kisses more often. Even in my dreams his lips are warm and they make me feel safe. These rare kisses are brief and unsatisfying to my ache for him, though.

Afterword, I beg him not to leave me, but Beetee does anyway without so much as a response.

I'm all alone.

I end up on the ground again. Then I hear another voice – _my _voice, cruelly twisted so that it sounds venomous and cold. She croons in my ear, congratulating me for my victory.

Victory.

I am the victor of the 46th Hunger Games. I swore I wouldn't return with a drop of blood on my hands. Instead I murdered not one but six tributes in the arena, including my own district partner, Marcelle. Little Marcelle, Marcelle…

A cold, calculating murderess.

Everything fades to black, and at first I think my dream is beginning again. But it doesn't. The blackness stays in front of my eyes, but different exquisite sensations overcome me.

I can hear a faint beeping noise, and the sound of someone's slow, deep breathing. I feel a slight, warm pressure on my wrist, suggesting that someone is holding my hand. The touch is familiar. I can also smell something sharp and unpleasant—ammonia. But there's something else, something subtler I can't put my finger on that spreads my ache for Beetee from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes.

Slowly, slowly, I open my eyes.

The ceiling is bright and white; the light hurts my eyes and gives me a headache. I sit up to take in my surroundings, and as soon as I come to the conclusion I'm in a hospital—why?—I see the man sitting next to my bed.

Beetee.

Am I still dreaming? I must be—Beetee is dead, I know he's dead!—but everything suggests otherwise. I make some small sound in the back of my throat and Beetee raises his eyes. He sees me, and those dark brown eyes of his light up, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

I inch forward on my hands and knees, watching him in reciprocated awe.

Beetee is dead. I know he's dead. I heard his agonized screams as he was tortured to death. But how does that explain his being here?

Either I'm dreaming, or Beetee survived.

He touches my cheek, and his fingertips feel so real against my cheek that I decide that the latter of my two possible conclusions is true. He's still smiling, and then he says, "Good morning, Wiress."

He's alive. Beetee is alive.

"Beetee!" I cry. Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck, tears spilling out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. Alive. Alive, alive, alive. Beetee's alive!

Beetee's reaction to my embrace, however, is not as I expected.

He sucks in a breath through his tightly clenched teeth and, to my utmost shock, shoves me away, breathing roughly.

I sit up, having fallen back, and search his eyes desperately for an answer, terribly wounded.

Beetee has leaned forward and has his arms around his stomach, trying to control his heavy breathing.

My crying continues, but they're no longer happy tears. I'm terrified as I reach another possible conclusion.

Beetee doesn't love me anymore. He hates me for what I've done to him.

"Oh, Beetee," I whisper, sobbing. "I'm—I'm sorry…p-please don't h-hate me…"

"No," he murmurs, sitting up and taking my face in his hands. "No, Wiress, I could never hate you; you have nothing to apologize for."

"I—I h-hurt you," I whisper.

"No, you didn't," he insists. He kisses my eyelids and whispers, "You didn't do anything wrong, darling."

This is the first time he's ever called me anything other than my name, and strangely, this is what calms me. Beetee sits next to me on the hospital bed, pulling me into his lap and stroking my back and hair. This is what I need, and he knows it.

He gently presses his lips to my forehead, my eyelids, my wet cheeks, and my lips. His taste salty from my tears.

Somehow, somehow, Beetee is alive. Alive, alive, alive.

I wrap my arms around his neck, twining my fingers in his thick, dark hair. I inhale his scent, soot and metal and clean water and something else, something warm and sweet, like honey maybe.

Beetee breaks off our kiss, smiling again. He brushes a dangling lock of hair out of my face. I rest my cheek against his chest and that's when I notice that, under his shirt, his torso is wrapped in white.

I pull away slightly, sliding open the first button of his shirt and proving my assumption correct. He's wrapped in bandages.

Our eyes meet; Beetee looks suddenly anxious. I examine him a little more closely; I remember he broke his left arm during our attempted escape of the Capitol, but it must have healed in the time since. I suddenly remember Raellen, an Avox girl who tried to help us during that escape attempt.

"Raellen?" I whisper.

Beetee just shakes his head sadly. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "There was nothing I could do."

I'm suddenly filled with a morbid curiosity. I unbutton the next few buttons of his shirt. His eyes fill with comprehension and he puts his hands over my wrists.

"No," he says, pleading with his eyes. "Don't."

"I have to know," I whisper. "I have to know what they did to you."

"Please, Wiress, you don't; please," says Beetee.

"I _have _to," I whisper. "I have to know what I put you through."

"You didn't put me through anything, and if you have to know, I can just tell you –"

"You'll change some of the details so you don't make me feel bad, but I'll feel worse _not _knowing. Please, Beetee, you of all people should understand me."

Beetee closes eyes and puts his hands down, biting his lower lip.

I finish unbuttoning his shirt and slide it don his arms, putting it behind me. He's wrapped in bandages starting under his arms and going all the way to his waist. I crawl behind him, observing his back, and see the end of the bandage taped to his shoulder blade. I peel it off and start unwrapping.

When I remove all of Beetee's bandages I put them on the ground and take a long, long look at my lover's skin. It's a sight that will be burned into the inside of my retinas for the rest of my life.

I've seen Beetee shirtless a few times before, but I have never seen anything like this. His skin is dominated with large patches of black, blue, and purple. All over his back and chest are long stripes of bright red that look almost like whip marks, but deeper. It makes me think they may have used knives. _Knives_.

His stomach is decorated with most of the bruises and is also stained pink from burns. Blue, black, pink, purple, and his normal white—Beetee's skin is painted with the sickest rainbow I have ever seen.

A sharp, mournful cry escapes my lips. This is what was done to him. _This _is what those bastards did to him to elicit those screams from his throat.

At the sound of my cry Beetee snatches his shirt and puts it back on without bothering with the bandages. His fingers are trembling horribly on his buttons and he winces when the material chafes his skin. "I shouldn't have let you see that," he says quickly, his eyes on mine.

I start to hyperventilate.

"This—is—_my—_fault," I choke out, shivering violently. "I—_I_did this—to you…"

"No," Beetee tells me urgently, "no, Wiress, it isn't your fault, it isn't."

"It is!" I gasp. "They—they _hurt _you—and, and you were screaming—Beetee, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I start sobbing uncontrollably.

"Wiress," murmurs Beetee, "I don't blame you in the least."

I can't speak. I continue crying.

Beetee inclines his head. His lips brush my ear. "I heard you too," he whispers. "You didn't have to, but you did. For me. And… it helped. For a while, I didn't feel any pain but yours."

He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I bury my face in his neck, desperately inhaling that strange, wonderful scent. Soot. Metal—maybe aluminum. Clean water. Honey. So sweet and pleasant.

I pull away from his embrace after a moment and stand up. My legs feel weak. I walk to the middle of the room feeling lightheaded.

"Wiress, love?" Beetee asks softly. He comes up behind me, caressing my shoulders through the thin, hospital-issued pajama top. "Are you alright?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to say yes—for his sake—when the room starts spinning sickeningly. I collapse into Beetee's arms.

* * *

When I come to I'm lying in a different hospital bed, hooked up to a few more machines. I moan, my head pounding from the bright lights, and I realize a man is leaning over me. It's not Beetee, and I start in surprise.

"No, no, no," he says slowly, pushing me back into the pillow.

"What…what…" I can't complete my sentence and Beetee is nowhere to be seen.

The man—who I presume is a doctor—seems to get the gist of what I'm trying to say. "You fainted," he tells me gently.

"Where's…" This one I have to finish. "Where's Beetee?"

My doctor narrows his emerald eyes framed in thick black lashes. "Mr. Jarvis is in the waiting room, I assume," he says almost irritably.

I take a deep breath and say, "I want to see him."

The doctor shakes his head. "No," he says sternly, and in a gentler tone he continues, "We're already astounded by this dramatic upturn of your health; you had been comatose, Wiress. You weren't expected to _live_. Given those circumstances, your fainting spell was truly frightening, and I believe it was caused by stress that could only have resulted from Mr. Jarvis's presence in your room—he should've informed us the moment you woke up, as that was our agreement for his staying here," he adds touchily.

"Comatose?" I ask, my voice an octave higher from surprise. The doctor nods grimly.

"To be specific," he says, "you were in what we call _hypovolemic shock_ in the medical field. Do you know what that is?"

I shake my head, dumbfounded at his ignorance. How could I, a girl who has grown up working in factories, know anything at all about the medical field other than basic first aid?

"You were in a coma because of extensive blood loss," he explains, and his eyes flash fiercely. I remember the end of my Games, the cuts I made to be with my lover again. I look at my arms reflexively and I notice that they bear no scars.

"You lost over forty percent of your blood, Wiress," he says. "Most people die when they lose thirty percent. You are very lucky."

"What about Beetee?" I ask. "He was a patient here too."

The doctor nods stiffly. "He was discharged a few days ago," he says evasively.

"He's still in pain," I say, trying to eradicate the image of Beetee's chest and back. All that pain taken for the person who deserves that much love the least—me. "Why isn't he still a patient? Or on some kind of drug? He can hardly _walk _without having to stop and rest."

"I don't know," he snaps. "I wasn't in charge of his case."

Anger sears through me like a toxic chemical. I suddenly understand perfectly. "Why didn't you just let him die?" I ask bitterly. "He wouldn't have _been _in that state if it weren't for you!"

The doctor looks surprised at my accusation, but I'm not done.

"You nearly killed him!" I shout furiously, anger boiling over inside me and threatening to tear me apart, but I no longer care. "Did you save his life just to prolong his suffering? _Huh? _To make him live with those memories—to live without me, the one person he loved, who was surely a goner because she tried to kill herself _because of you?_ Is that why you let him live? _Is _it?"

"Calm down, Wiress," he warns, but I ignore him completely.

"You tried to take him away from me!" I scream. "You tried to kill him! You put him through all that pain for almost four and a half hours just so that I could listen to him scream and beg for his life! I hate you for it! I hate you, I hate you, I hope you burn in hell!"

I rake my fingernails over his cheek; he howls and shoves me into the bed, taking a hypodermic needle from the bedside table and stabbing me in the arm with it. Once again, everything cuts to black.

* * *

I stare at yet another buzzing overhead light. I try to sit up, but my arms are tied down perpendicular to my body. I try kicking and discover my legs are also restrained. It hurts to lift just my head, neck, and shoulders, so I stick with staring at the ceiling.

A door opens. I don't bother looking to see who it is. To my slight surprise, however, my visitor pulls up a chair and sits next to me, taking my hand and squeezing my fingers.

"Beetee?" I ask, rolling my head toward the man in the chair; yes, it's Beetee. He smiles fleetingly, but only with his lips; his eyes are bloodshot and echo the pain I'm in.

I don't have to ask why they let him in here again. According to the doctors, there's no point in trying to make me see reason anymore. I'm too far gone.

I notice something on my wrist. I squint; it looks like a bracelet. It has words written on it but I can't read them.

"What does it say?" I ask.

"What does what say?" Beetee asks softly, touching my cheek.

"The bracelet. On my wrist. What does it say?"

A spasm of pain flickers across his face. He grits his teeth and says, "You don't want to know."

"I do," I insist.

Beetee clenches his jaw. I almost fear his anger is directed toward me, but then he says, "'Mentally disoriented.'"

The words are ice water in my veins. "What?"

"That's what your bracelet says, love," Beetee murmurs. "'Mentally disoriented.'"

"What…" I swallow over the lump in my throat. "What does that mean?"

Beetee watches me sadly. He doesn't have to answer. His fingers trace patterns on the underside of my wrist.

"It means I'm crazy…right?" I say shakily.

Beetee lets out a soft moan. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. I close my eyes.

"I'm right," I say, trembling. "They think I'm crazy. And…they're right, aren't they?"

"No," says Beetee in his gentle, reassuring voice, "you aren't."

"I _am_. I have horrible mood swings," I point out.

"You're fragile. That doesn't make you insane," Beetee insists.

"That's not all. I hear voices in my head," I confess. "Especially this really…really scary one that…that tells me to...it tells me to do bad things," I finish lamely, tears burning my eyes.

Beetee moves his lips to my eyelids, kissing my tears. "You aren't insane, Wiress," he says. "You _aren't_."

As if to prove him wrong, I burst into fresh sobs. "I want to go home!" I cry out.

Beetee brushes my hair away from my forehead. "I know, darling," he whispers consolingly. "I know."

"W-why can't I l-l-leave? I _h-hate _it h-here! I w-want t-to g-go h-home…"

"Wiress, as soon as you're let out, you'll do the post-Games interview and then you'll go home. You can be with your father and your sister Raphela again. And you know I'll never leave you," he adds, giving me a shaky smile.

I start struggling against my restraints. "Please help me up,' I whisper.

"Of course," Beetee says solemnly. He kneels, running his long fingers over the cuffs that hold down my arms and legs and muttering to himself about ways to disable it electrically. This seems logical until another idea hits me – a simpler one my older sister Raphela uses often.

"Beetee," I ask timidly, "I…I know you're the expert, but…couldn't you just pick the locks? With a hairpin or something?"

Beetee leans back on his heels, his mouth agape. Color floods his face.

"I, um…I knew that," he says, smiling, a little embarrassed at the fact that he tried to over-complicate things.

I smile back through my tears. Maybe there's some hope for normalcy after all.

Beetee finds a hairpin soon enough and picks the locks of the shackles holding me to the bed; sure enough, they spring loose and Beetee tenderly puts his hands under my knees and shoulders. He lifts me in his arms and holds me close, caressing my cheek with his own. Beetee's feels raspy, as if he needs to shave. I wrap my arms around his neck and cling to him, feeling the warmth of his skin through my thin pajamas, tasting his soot-aluminum-water-and-honey scent on my tongue, and listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

Beetee is alive. I am alive. We can be together. Everything will be okay again.

_Don't be so sure, sweetheart_, the voice in my head contradicts in an icy whisper.

**Two things—one, there is a specific reason I chose for Wiress's bracelet to read the same thing as Katniss's; it isn't out of laziness, but instead simply because I believed this is what all Capitol doctors would put on their "insane" patients. Just sayin'. :)**

**Also: you may notice Wiress doesn't seem to be mentioning her father and her older sister, Raphela, very often, and instead seems entirely focused on Beetee, and I have a valid reason for this as well: at the moment, Raphela and her father don't seem "real," if you know what I mean. Her pre-Games world (with Raphela and her father) and her during/post-Games world (namely Beetee) seem to be two completely different places, and in her slightly damaged psychological state, she's only just realizing those two worlds will soon merge. Her pre-Games world also seems like a dream at the moment considering all of the trauma she's endured over the past three weeks or so. I'm not saying any of you will flame me with that complaint, but in case you haven't noticed, I received a flame earlier with similar content, so I just wanted to go ahead and clear those two little points up. Savvy?**

**All my love,**

**Wendy**


	2. Chapter II

Beetee reluctantly sets me on my feet and leaves for a moment, returning with a folded piece of clothing and an achingly familiar pair of shoes. He puts my shoes in the chair by my bed and unfolds the button-down dress I found in my room at the Training Center.

I gasp. "Where did you…?"

"I figured you'd want this," he replies with a knowing smile. He gently helps me out of my thin pajamas and into my underclothes and dress; I still feel numb from the news that I'm now viewed by the Capitol as insane, so I'm hardly capable of dressing myself.

I slip on my shoes and Beetee kisses the top of my head. Then he holds out his hand. I take it gratefully, realizing I'm still wearing the bracelet reading those two cruel words—_mentally disoriented_. I try to take it off to no avail; it's too small to slip over my hand and laminated, so I can't rip it off. I can feel my body start to shake as I struggle to yank the hateful thing off.

"Wiress," says Beetee, taking my hands in his to restrain me, "you're going to rip your hand off."

"Get it off!" I cry, terrified of myself. I think I'm having some kind of panic attack. "Get it off, Beetee, get if _off!_"

I start to cry again. Beetee finds a pair of scissors, holds my wrist to my eyes, and cuts the bracelet in half. It falls to my feet and Beetee says, "It's off. Wiress, it's _off_."

I continue to cry and he pulls me into his arms, stroking my back and hair. "It's _okay_," he says soothingly. "You're okay, darling, you're okay."

No, I'm not. There is something really wrong with me.

"W-what's happening to me?" I sob, startled by the tears. I don't normally cry this much.

"You're traumatized; it's perfectly normal for someone in your situation," Beetee tells me gently.

"I'm l-losing my m-mind…"

"No, love, you're not. I wasn't anywhere near this coherent when I came out of the arena, and I wasn't called 'mentally disoriented.' They're only trying to scare you."

"B-but you didn't hear v-voices…"

"Darling, you're _traumatized_. I'm not saying it's normal, but you probably had those schizophrenic symptoms because of stress and fear. You are _not _insane," Beetee says.

We sit back down and I cry into Beetee's chest. He murmurs my name, holding me close. "You're going to be fine, Wiress," he whispers. "I promise that everything will be alright again. Somehow."

My bizarre sobs die down and I pull away slightly, touching Beetee's shirtfront, which is wet from my tears.

"Y-you're all wet," I tell him, giving him a watery half-smile.

"I suppose so," he says mildly.

I bury my face in his chest again, not crying this time. His lips touch my ear and he murmurs what I need to hear most: "I love you, Wiress."

I choke back another sob, borne of fear instead of sorrow: I can't respond.

Instead I ask, "Where are we going?"

Beetee helps me to my feet and says, "We have to go back to the Training Center."

Fear ices my blood. Beetee can read the terror in my facial expression and quickly he adds, "We'll only be there for today and tomorrow, and then we'll go back home to District Three."

"Raphela," I whisper.

Beetee nods. "And your father, Wiress. You can be with your family again."

Home. District 3. Raphela. Father. It's been almost three weeks since any of these concepts have been more than dreams that could never be. Now they're real. I'll really see them again. Raphela and my father—when I was reaped, they were the only reasons I would've tried to survive. Then I met Beetee.

Beetee. How does he fit in? I'd obviously live in the Victor's Village with my father and sister, but what about Beetee? I still love him, but he's still so much older…how would my father react, my sister? This problem seems petty compared with others I've had as of late, but it's a problem nonetheless.

Beetee brings me back to reality by saying, "Are you ready to go, Wiress?"

I grab his hand, squeezing his warm fingers. "Yes," I whisper.

Beetee puts his hand on the small of my back and gently leads me to the door. I still feel weak. When we start down the hallway, he wraps his arm around me protectively. I can feel people looking at me, but I close my eyes, leaning against Beetee.

"Don't let me go," I whisper.

His reply is gentle but firm. "You really are crazy if you think I would."

My leaving is simpler than I thought. Beetee tells the doctors that had been taking care of me that there is nothing more that can be done for me physically or psychologically. I'm healthy enough physically to do the interview and then go home, and some familiarity will heal most psychological wounds. I stay silent the entire time, and soon I'm discharged.

Beetee tells me that Violette, my mentor, is waiting for us at the Training Center, which lightens me some. She's alive too.

We get into a car that will take us to the Training Center. Beetee and I don't speak much; he holds me and kisses my cheeks, murmuring those sweet condolences I need to hear.

"Will we…will we see Rochellita again?" I ask timidly.

"Most likely," he says darkly. To my surprise, he gently tilts my head back and presses his warm lips to the hollow of my throat. "Be strong, Wiress, love."

I pull away, a little frightened by his intensity. Beetee seems to notice my discomfort and slips his arm around my waist, holding me but not speaking. I rest my head against his shoulder, unable to stop myself from feeling a little guilty.

"It's not you," I say softly.

"I know," he says simply.

There was once a time when I felt more than comfort from his kisses. There was a time when the touch of his lips made me want so much more until finally Beetee took me to his bed and made love to me.

During the Games another tribute tried to force on me what Beetee gave in love. I killed him, but it was only self-defense…at least, that's what I've been trying to tell myself ever since. I can still picture his bloody body, and his blood all over my chest and stomach.

I don't know if Beetee will ever touch me intimately again, and if he does, if I'll ever feel any pleasure, or if I'll only think of lying on my back in the middle of the strangely cold jungle while Brozen of District 1 puts his cold hands on my bare skin, driven by hate and lust instead of affection and desire.

It doesn't seem fair to Beetee, but he understands my reasoning.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Beetee shakes his head. "Don't be, darling," he murmurs. "I…I know what happened. I understand."

We spend the rest of the ride in silence.

When we get to the Training Center a woman runs out to meet us. Relief floods through me; this is Violette, my mentor and my friend. She wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly; I wrap my arms around her neck, relieved that she wasn't executed or tortured, as Beetee was. I don't get a good look at her until she pulls away. She looks exactly as I remember her: short, flyaway dark brown hair, obsidian eyes, and towering over me by almost five inches.

"It's good to see you on your feet again, Wiress," she tells me as happily as I've ever heard her speak.

"Thank you. It's…good to be on my feet again," I tell her breathlessly.

Violette turns to Beetee and steps forward as if to embrace him as well, but he steps back, his eyes flashing. Violette narrows her eyes, and a significant amount of coolness has leaked in her voice.

"Beetee," she says simply.

"Violette," he says just as coolly.

"Where's Rochellita?" I ask, trying to thaw the ice that has erupted between the two.

Violette rolls her eyes. "Don't know, don't care," she says airily. "Let's go inside."

Beetee takes my hand and we follow Violette down the extravagant hallways. I notice a clock reading seven-thirty.

"Is it morning or evening?" I ask to no one in particular.

"Evening," says Beetee.

My heart sinks. "The interview…"

"It's not today, Wiress," Beetee tells me quietly. I sigh.

"It's tomorrow evening," adds Violette. "I'll help you with what to say in the morning."

"Do mentors normally help tributes prepare for the post-Games interviews? I always thought they simply winged it," I say curiously.

Violette averts her eyes and says, "Let's just say you're specific…case…is special."

"Special?" I ask, a little confused.

"Don't worry about it now," she says briskly. "Come with me. You haven't had a decent meal since before the Games; you must be starving."

I'm not, but I welcome the change of subject. The prospect of the three-hour interview with Caesar Flickerman—not to mention watching the Games on television—is truly petrifying.

Violette leads us to the dining hall and the three of us eat a late dinner. I try to eat for their sakes, but I simply can't hold anything down with the memories floating through my head.

"Wiress," Beetee pleads, "please eat something."

I shake my head tearfully.

"Wiress, you need to eat," he says almost helplessly.

"I'm not hungry," I say softly.

Violette leaves the table soon thereafter and says she's going to bed. Beetee continues his futile efforts to coax me into eating something, but when the clock strikes nine he decides we'd best get to bed.

He gently takes my hand and leads me down the hall. We go to his bedroom, but when he opens the door I freeze in the doorway.

A different set of memories float through my mind, sacred pre-Games memories of Beetee and me making love in this room, kissing, lying entwined between the sheets. Sweet memories made painful by the Games. Just one more thing they took away from me.

I can't sleep in here. Not in this bed. Not with Beetee. That's too far.

I turn on my heel and run.

"Wiress?" Beetee calls. "Wiress!"

I don't turn back. I keep running until I reach my room. I slam the door behind me and kick off my shoes, crawling under the blankets and sobbing. It isn't fair. It just isn't fair.

Eventually, I cry myself into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Someone starts shaking my shoulders, yanking me out of the arms of Brozen in that jungle. The room is dark except for the gentle glow of a single lamp, which illuminates Beetee's anxious face.

"What…happened?" I ask shakily.

"I came in to check on you and you were having a nightmare, so I woke you up," he says, cupping my wet cheek.

"Why were you checking on me?"

Beetee sighs. "I'm…really worried about you, love," he murmurs.

Tears well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I throw my arms around his neck; he winces but holds me tight, tracing the contours of my back. "I…I…I didn't _mean _to h-hurt him," I sob. "I…I just wanted him to l-leave me alone...I d-didn't want him to…to…"

Beetee realizes I'm talking about Brozen. He pulls me into his arms and I bury my face in his neck.

"It's not your fault, darling," he murmurs into my hair.

"It _is _my fault," I whisper against his throat.

"You were defending yourself."

"I killed him, Beetee!"

"He was going to kill you."

"He d-didn't deserve to d-die…"

"He was trying to rape you, Wiress. That isn't someone's survival instinct; it was unnecessary cruelty, meant to humiliate all of his victims. He _did _deserve what he got," he insists.

My crying gets worse. "Darling, sweetheart, love, I'd do anything to make you smile again, to make you feel safe again."

"I'm so scared," I whisper.

"I know," he whispers back. "I'm scared too."

"He's mad at me," I whisper. "The president."

Beetee nods slowly. "President Snow isn't happy with the stunt you pulled at the end of the Games."

"But…but…it w-wasn't a stunt! I j-just wanted to b-be with you again…"

"Darling, he doesn't care for your intentions," Beetee says gently. "In his eyes, you almost ruined a tried-and-tried tradition."

"B-but the H-Hunger Games are h-horrible!"

"I know, love, I _know_. Everything will be alright; tomorrow, Violette will help you through the interview. We'll put everything behind us and start over—if that's what you want."

I nod tearfully. Beetee gently kisses my lips and lays me on my back, covering me with the blanket. "You need to sleep, Wiress, love," he murmurs.

I grab his wrist. "Please don't leave," I whisper. "I'm scared they'll come and get me."

I feel childish voicing this fear, but Beetee closes my bedroom door and locks it. He goes to the desk, gets the desk chair, and drags it to the front door, shoving it under the doorknob. To my surprise, he settles into the chair and crosses his long legs, his dark eyes on me.

"Beetee," I sob, "you can't stay there all night."

"Watch me," he says simply.

Beetee may be a twenty-five-year-old man, but he's only about five and a half feet tall at the very most, and he can't weight much more than a hundred and ten pounds. If a Peacekeeper wanted to shove him out of the way, he could with the slightest of ease.

There's no point in telling Beetee this though, so I curl into a ball and close my eyes, praying for dreamless sleep.

* * *

I sleep late the next morning, and I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows. I sit up and look at my makeshift guard; Beetee sits with his arms crossed, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed. They snap open suddenly and he shakes his head, pushing his crooked glasses back up his nose. He sees me watching him and smiles.

"Hi," he says.

"You really stayed awake all night, didn't you?" I ask softly.

He nods. "Of course I did," he says solemnly.

Beetee rises and puts the chair away, sitting next to me. I lean against him and say, "Do you remember the lullaby I sang to you?"

"Yes," he says.

"Sing it to me," I murmur, burying my face in his chest.

He strokes my hair. "Wiress, I don't sing."

"Please?"

Beetee sighs and clears his throat. When he sings, his voice is low, sweet, and melancholy; I hold him tight, hanging on to every word.

"Thank you," I murmur when he's done. I sit up and stroke his cheek. "I…I love you," I tell him softly.

"I love you too, Wiress. More than anything," he whispers.

I kiss him gently, tearfully, wishing I weren't so afraid.

Beetee cups my cheek, his other hand settling into the curve of my waist. He pulls me close, a low moan in his throat; his lips travel over my neck and face, each kiss warmer and more urgent than the last. My blood runs cold. I didn't mean for _this _to happen. I don't want this.

"Beetee," I whisper. "Please stop."

He pulls away instantly, his eyes on fire. "Wiress, I'm so—"

"Don't apologize; it's my fault," I say shakily, warding off chills. "It's just…can I be alone for a little while?"

He nods quickly. "Of course, love," he says.

Beetee leaves the room; I can almost hear him chastising himself, as is his way.

* * *

No later than five minutes after Beetee left, Violette comes in. I'm not even dressed yet; I'm simply lying on my back staring at the ceiling, trying not to think.

"Wiress, we need to talk," she says.

I sit up. "About?"

"The interview."

My heart starts hammering with fear and apprehension. "What…what should I say?" I ask shakily.

Violette shakes her head and sits at the desk. "It's more than simply what to say," she tells me. "This has to go perfectly."

"Or else…"

"President Snow will execute your father, sister, and Beetee," she replies matter-of-factly.

I leap to my feet. "What?!" I cry. "But…but…_why_?!"

"He's furious with you, because of the stunt you pulled at the end of your Games," she says gravely. "But your family and Beetee will be safe is you do as I say."

"What…what do I do?" I ask shakily, my knees turning to water. I sit back down.

"I've already informed your stylist of your angle," Violette tells me. "We have to make you seem as innocent as possible. Innocent, naïve, and unstable."

"But _why_?" I repeat frantically.

"Wiress, all of Panem knows what you've done, after the Games and before. They know of the illegality of it. We have to justify what you've done."

I nod, trembling.

"Why did you have sex with Beetee?" she asks.

"B-because…I…I loved him," I say unsteadily. "I wanted him." I should leave it at that, but being the fool I often am, I continue. "When he kissed me, it felt so good; I wanted more, I _needed _more! I wanted him…to make love to me…I trusted him, I wanted to be with him…and w-when he did, he felt so good to me…he was so gentle…but B-Brozen w-wasn't and now…I…I don't want Beetee anymore! What am I supposed to do, Violette, I'm so scared!"

"Shh," soothes Violette, sitting next to me and hugging me, "don't cry. Talk to me. What do you mean you don't want Beetee anymore? Do you not love him anymore, or do you just not want to sleep with him anymore?"

"B-both! I mean n-neither! I—I love h-him but I'm s-scared that b-being with h-him will get him h-hurt and I'm s-scared for him!"

"That's why we're working on this interview, Wiress," says Violette gently. "To keep Beetee safe so the two of you can be together. Tell me honestly—is that what you want?"

This stumps me. I've known since the moment I woke up I would be with Beetee. But do I have a choice? How dangerous would it be for him if I resumed my role as his lover, or even became his wife? Is that what _he _wants? Am I ready for a lover, for a husband? Or heaven forbid, a child? My head starts spinning.

"I…I don't know," I say slowly. "I love Beetee, but I also want to be with my family, and I don't think I can have both. Someone will suffer my attention, but who deserves that the least? Raphela and my father or Beetee?"

Violette sighs. "I understand your predicament, Wiress. I'm not picking sides, but think of it this way: your father and your sister have each other, but Beetee…let's just say he's been alone for a long time. He hasn't been…living…very healthily."

"What…what do you mean? Does he drink, do drugs?"

"No drugs, but he does drink some. Beetee and alcohol just don't…mix."

"Meaning…"

"I call him a 'crying drunk.' Give him a shot glass and he'll be crying his eyes out on your shoulder in minutes, and I'm not joking. It's really annoying, actually. Beetee tried to become an alcoholic after his Games, but he just couldn't."

"So…what does Beetee do that's unhealthy?" I ask curiously.

"It really isn't my place to tell you," she says dismissively. "We were talking about your interview, remember?"

I nod, sighing.

"We know why you had sex with Beetee," she continues, but I interrupt.

"This was never televised, so they don't even know it happened! Why are we focusing on it?" I ask anxiously, desperate to get off the topic of sex with Beetee. It's too mixed-up and painful.

Violette narrows her eyes, annoyed at my interjection. "It wasn't aired, but everyone knows it happened."

"How?"

She sighs, half sympathetic, half irritable. "You told the girl from Eleven. Remember?"

Janine. Sweet Janine. I told her I was in love with my mentor and that I'd slept with him. In telling her, I told the entire nation of Panem.

"So…what do I do?" I ask, hardly able to speak above a whisper.

"I already have you covered," Violette says. "As I said, your angle is naïve, innocent, and unstable, and the first two are your reasoning for sleeping with Beetee. I'm typecasting you as a pretty, sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed kind of girl."

"I'm seventeen," I point out.

"I know. You slept with Beetee because you wanted to experience as much as you could before your eventual death. You pestered him about it until he agreed. You had two one-night stands and that was the end of it."

I stare at her, my mouth agape. "That's a complete lie!"

"I _know_," says Violette wearily.

"So love had nothing to do with it?"

"No," she says firmly. "Love wasn't a factor; it was desperation on your part and pity on his."

I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. To let the Games change me is one thing, but to live with such a hideous lie…

"If we're going to pretend that Beetee doesn't love me," I reply tearfully, "he wouldn't have let himself be t-tortured for me."

Violette bites her lip. "We, um…we're leaving that bit out."

"What?!"

"Wiress –"

"The world has to know what those sons of bitches did to Beetee!" I say hotly. "We can't leave that out! They have to know!"

"Wiress, it's to keep him safe and alive."

I break down in fresh tears, reality sinking in. The lives of Raphela, my father, and Beetee depend on me, an insane seventeen-year-old girl.

"No one will ever look at me the same way again," I choke.

"They weren't going to anyway," she says gently. "Wiress, you'll do fine. It's almost noon now; the interview is at five. It won't be in front of a live audience; it will just be you, and Caesar. I'll be in the wings if you need any help. We _will_ help you if you get stuck on a question. Before you know it, you'll be on your way home."

She rubs my back. "You'll be fine," she says again. Then she asks, "Are you hungry?"

I shake my head. "I j-just want to sleep for a little longer," I say.

She nods, kisses my forehead, and leaves me be.

I lay back down and stare at the ceiling. At first I'm thinking of the interview, but then I'm thinking of Beetee and life after the Games.

I chose to be with Beetee because I really thought I was a goner. But now that I have the opportunity to all but continue my old life with Raphela and my father…what do I do?

There's Beetee himself to think of. Without me he'll be lost and lonely—but Snow can't hurt him if we aren't together. Would he rather be loved and endangered or safe and lonely? The first one, but if I were to choose for him…

I would choose the second one.

I spend the next two hours or so crying my eyes out. After everything, this is how it has to end. A fairy tale gone awry. The lovers going their separate ways, never to touch again.

I don't want it. But it's to keep Beetee safe.

I find some paper and consider writing a letter, but I change my mind. I have to tell him face-to-face. The least I can do is look into his eyes when I rip out his heart.

I wash my face, get dressed, and go to the door, but someone else opens it. Beetee, of course. My heart starts screaming at me—_don't do it!_

Of course I have to do it.

"I was just about to go looking for you," I say, surprised at the calmness of my voice.

"Really? Why?" asks Beetee concernedly. I let him inside and he sits on the bed opposite me.

"We…need to talk," I say softly.

Beetee takes my hand, squeezing my fingers.. "Wiress, what's wrong?"

A single tear rolls down my cheek; Beetee wipes it away and says, "Love, why are you crying?"

"We can't be together," I whisper.

Beetee watches me confused. "What do you mean, Wiress?" Something dawns on him and he says, "Is this about the statutory rape thing? Darling, we don't have to have a sexual relationship until you're eighteen, or at all, if you don't want one. When do you turn eighteen, anyway?"

"December," I whisper. "The fifteenth of December."

"Wiress, we can make love again then if you still want to. Until then—"

"Beetee, are you suggesting we live together platonically for almost five months? It can't be done; it isn't fair to you! Besides, that's not why we can't be together; we can't be together because I can't live with the knowledge that you could be taken away from me at any given second!" I shout.

The following silence is deafening.

Beetee gets to his feet and crosses the room, facing the wall opposite me. He leans against it, crossing his arms and resting his forehead against them.

After an eternity, he speaks. "Wiress, I swore I would stay by your side until the very end and you promised you'd do the same. Were those just words to you?"

His tone takes me aback. Beetee has never spoken to me so coldly.

"No," I whisper, more tears rolling down my cheeks. "No, they weren't just words; I meant them at the time…"

"'At the time'?" he fires back, turning to me. "What the hell does that tell me?"

"Th-that I love you n-now as much as I did th-then but I just c-can't live l-like that anymore…"

"I can't live the way _I _was living before I met you! I can't live without you anymore, Wiress! What do we do about that?"

"I—I—I d-don't know…"

"How many times have you said you loved me, Wiress?" he asks heatedly, turning away from me again. "And how many times did you actually mean it?"

"I meant it every single t-time," I say tearfully, shocked and frightened by his anger. "I meant everything I said, Beetee…"

"But those sweet words don't mean a damned thing now, do they? _Do _they?" Beetee demands.

"Stop!" I cry out, terrified. "Stop, please stop! I'm sorry! Please, I'm so sorry, please stop talking to me like you hate me now!"

"Wiress, I don't hate you," he says fiercely. "I couldn't hate you even if I wanted to…and I sure as hell want to right now!"

A strangled sob tears out of my throat and my knees turn to water. I start crying hysterically as my now ex-lover's words sink in.

"You know what? Just forget it," he says coldly, striding over to the door. "You're right; that'd be best."

Beetee leaves, slamming the door behind him.

I've entered my worst nightmare.

I cry harder than I've ever cried in my entire life. Not Beetee. Of all the people to turn on me… why Beetee? How could I have lost him like that? He's turned on me completely…and I deserve it. I guess I was really waiting for this moment, for the moment when Beetee snapped and decided he hated me for everything I've put him through in the past three weeks.

"_Wiress, I don't hate you. I couldn't hate you even if I wanted to… and I sure as hell want to right now!"_

Beetee said he'd rather hate me then love me.

For the second time in less then three weeks, my entire life has I know it has turned upside down.


	3. Chapter III

Violette runs into my room swearing; at first I think she's mad at me, but instead she sits next to me and gathers me in her arms. I cry into her shoulder and she rubs my back soothingly.

"I could kill that bastard!" she snarls. "Oh, Wiress, I'm so sorry."

"I—I—I tried t-to let him down g-gently," I sob. "W-why d-did he g-get so m-mad? I've n-never s-seen him like th-that…"

"Wiress, what you have to understand about Beetee is…I guess you could say he has a bit of a problem controlling his temper. He seems very unemotional most of the time, and it takes a lot to push him over the edge, but sometimes he just snaps. He wasn't angry at you; he was hurt, and he didn't know how else to react. The only emotion he was really allowed to show growing up was anger."

Her words are little comfort. I keep sobbing. I hear the door open and a burly voice say, "What the hell is wrong with her now?"

I recognize the voice of Orion, my stylist. Violette snaps, "Give us a minute."

Orion leaves, grumbling. "Wiress, we have to get you ready for the interview," Violette says gently.

"I'm s-scared…"

"I know. It'll be okay. I promise. Just let Orion get you dressed and we'll do the interview. It'll be over before you know it."

I nod, still crying. Violette leaves and Orion comes back in alone and holding a box of tissues. He kneels and, to my surprise, helps me dry my tears. I can't see his face so I don't know if this is simple kindness or if he's doing this because of a threat from Violette.

When my crying has all but ceased he calls my prep team in. They undress me and clean me up, then redress me in underclothes much less revealing than usual. My hair is trimmed and my bangs are cut straight across my forehead. Orion helps me into a filmy dress that reaches my ankles. I close my eyes until they're done, and then Orion takes me by the elbow and gently leads me to the full-length mirror. I stare numbly at my reflection.

I look young, very young. I could pass for fifteen, fourteen, maybe even thirteen. My dark hair almost touches my shoulders and is silky straight. My eyes look large and innocent, like a doe's, and are framed with thick black lashes. The only other makeup they've put on me is pink lipstick that matches the color of my dress and fingernails. My dress is strapless but, to my surprise, doesn't show as much cleavage as usual. My feet are donned in shiny, flat-soled silver slippers.

"What do you think?" asks my stylist.

"Thank you," I whisper.

One member of my prep team opens her mouth to speak, but Orion silences her with a fierce look.

Violette comes back in and takes my hand. "C'mon," she says.

She leads me down hallway after hallway, saying, "Usually the viewing of the Games and the interview are done separately with the first being done in front of a live audience, but as I said, your…case…is unique, so they've decided to allow you to view the Games and do your interview back-to-back with only Caesar present."

We reach a door. Violette opens it and leads me inside.

There are two huge chairs in the middle of the room. Sitting in one is a beaming Caesar Flickerman. Behind him is a huge television screen. I gulp.

"Good luck," Violette whispers. She goes to the corner of the room behind the cameras.

On trembling legs I walk over to the empty chair and sit down, my knees clicking nervously. Caesar smiles.

"Hello," he says kindly. "How are you, Wiress?"

"Fine," I say softly. A total lie.

"That's good," he tells me encouragingly. "You've had a rough time since the Games ended; it's a relief you're with us at all."

I nod.

"Are you ready?" asks Caesar.

I nod again, biting my lip. _Here we go…_

Caesar motions for someone to turn on the TV. I squeeze my knees, trembling, watching the Games through the eyes of Panem.

Maybe twenty minutes are spent on the pre-Games things. Cheerful music is played during this, and I almost vomit what little food I've eaten when I realize that everyone onscreen except for me is dead.

I close my eyes, refusing to watch the actual Games. I listen to myself telling Janine of my relationship with Beetee. (_Oh, Beetee, how could you? _I think.) I hear of the horrible deaths of Janine and my district partner's allies Hollen and Seymour. I want to go home, I just want to go home…

I tune everything out and try to think about something else, but the only thing that comes to mind is Beetee. I can't think about Beetee—_Beetee, how could you say such horrible things?—_for fear that I'll cry again.

I hear Marcelle's fiery end and I slap my hands over my ears. No, no, no. Not little Marcelle, protective Marcelle who may have been in love with me…

Love. Beetee whispering love words in my ear as he kissed my throat and shoulders, telling me I was beautiful, and that our love was right even when the Capitol said it was wrong… _no, no, no_.

_ Why, Beetee? Why? _I scream silently.

"Wiress," says Caesar, yanking me out of my contemplation, "are you still okay?"

The replay must be over. I drop my hands, nodding, tears dripping down my cheeks. _Why so many tears—why so many? _I ask myself.

"Why are you crying?" Caesar asks gently.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands, smudging them with black. Caesar takes out a box of tissues and gives it to me. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes gratefully.

"I…I feel stupid," I murmur. Showtime.

"How come?" asks Caesar.

"W-what I did at the end of the G-Games…it was stupid," I explain, still mopping my eyes.

"Do you remember why you did it?" he asks quietly.

"Y-yes," I say slowly. "I thought…maybe…my f-family wouldn't w-want me anymore. B-because of what I'd d-done in the arena. S-so I decided I couldn't…I wouldn't live with that." It isn't a total lie, but this does little to comfort me.

Caesar watches me thoughtfully. "You knew it was wrong though, didn't you?" he asks.

I nod again. "I g-guess I wasn't in my r-right m-mind," I say. "I was so s-scared."

Caesar nods. "Do you think you lost your mind in the arena, Wiress?"

I think for a moment. "Yes…and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe I did…for a while. But I feel sane now." Another lie.

"Did you feel sane before the Games? After the reaping, I mean."

"Yes," I say slowly. "I just felt…incomplete."

_ "This has to go perfectly."_

_ "Or else…"_

_ "President Snow will execute your father, sister, and Beetee."_

"What do you mean by that?" asks Caesar.

"There was so much…I hadn't done…that I really, really wanted to do. I'd never even been in love before," I say slowly, choosing my words very carefully. I look at Violette for approval, but she shakes her head slightly.

"Stay on topic," she mouths.

I quickly turn back to Caesar just as he says, "Is there anything else that comes to mind?"

"Yes," I say, relieved at the chance to rectify my mistake. "I had never been…loved…by a man before." I fold my hands in my lap, reeling. "Physically, I mean."

Caesar doesn't seem too surprised by this. "What did you do?" he asks gently.

"I went…to…one of my mentors…and I asked him to…" I look Caesar in the eyes and say, "I asked him to sleep with me."

He blinks exaggeratedly, letting me know that he _was _informed of the content of my interview ahead of time. "And what did he say?" he asks in a hushed voice.

I exhale. "He said no…at first. But I wouldn't l-leave him alone about it. So…eventually…he changed his mind."

"What did you think about losing your virginity to someone you hardly knew?" asks Caesar in a gentle voice.

I try not to cry. "It's not like I had much of a choice," I say quietly. "And B—he seemed nice enough." I'm careful not to use Beetee's name. It's obvious whom I'm talking about—there's only one male mentor—but for privacy's sake I leave him as anonymous as I can. I chastise myself for this—how can I protect him after all of the horrible things he said?—but it's instinctive to protect him considering everything I've put him through.

My body starts working involuntarily; Caesar and I continue a seemingly casual give-and-take, but I'm not conscious of anything that's being said. I'm only aware of a clock hanging on the wall behind the cameraman. Tick tock. Tick tock. I wish I could go home. Tick tock. Tick tock. Beetee, how could you say such horrible things after everything we went through together? Tick tock. Tick tock. Raphela and my father are waiting for me at home. I want to go home now. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Finally, Caesar gets to his feet. "It's been a pleasure talking to you, Wiress," he says to me, taking my hand and briefly pressing his lips to it. I rise as well, gently pulling my hand back.

"Thank you," I whisper gratefully. Caesar motions for the cameraman to turn the camera off, and as soon as he does Violette hurries to my side and gently ushers me out of the room.

"You were brilliant," she tells me, her hands at my shoulders. "Just brilliant."

"Then why do I feel like an idiot?" I ask, tearing up again.

"Oh, Wiress," she says softly, consoling me while I cry. Mascara pools in my eyes and I impatiently wipe it away until Violette hands me a handkerchief. I blow my nose loudly and wipe my eyes, smudging the light blue cloth with oily smears.

Violette rubs my back soothing and gently leads me to a restroom to wash my face. It takes a little while to remove all traces of the mascara, but soon my face is clean. My eyes are deeply set and bloodshot; I've never felt so exhausted.

"I'm going to bed," I tell Violette.

"You don't want dinner?"

"No. I just want to go to bed."

"Are you sure?" she asks again.

"_Yes_," I say more irritably then I'd intended. "Please, just…I want to be alone."

Violette reluctantly lets me go down the many hallways leading to my bedroom. I'm almost there when I hear footsteps behind me.

"Wiress," says an achingly familiar voice. My blood runs cold. Beetee. No, no, no. Not now. Please, God, not now.

I increase my pace but Beetee increases his as well; we're walking side by side soon enough and he says, "Wiress, please, I just want to talk. Wiress!"

I do my best to ignore him, but he keeps saying my name. "Please, honey, I'm sorry; please just let me talk to you."

"Go to hell," I choke out, trying not to cry.

"Wiress," Beetee says again; it's hard not to feel any pain at the hurt in his voice. "Please, Wiress, I just want to talk."

I reach my bedroom door. "Please, just leave me alone," I say shakily.

To my slight surprise, Beetee follows me into my room and closes the door, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a small shake. "Will you _please _listen to me?" he asks pleadingly, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

I pull away from him, retreating to a corner almost instinctively. "Haven't you said enough?" I whisper, tears trickling down my cheeks. I feel weak crying.

Beetee slowly comes to my corner just as I've slunk to the ground. He gingerly helps me to my feet and brushes my tears away with his long fingers. "I'm _sorry_," he says softly. "Please hear me out."

I don't respond. Beetee's arms drop to his sides and he says, "I shouldn't have said what I did. I'm so sorry. Please, if you only believe one thing I tell you for the rest of our lives, let it be this; I love you and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_."

I watch him closely. Beetee half-smiles, mutely asking me to forgive him at the most and to pity him at the very least.

Strangely, what I remember next is our first kiss—I took him by surprise by kissing him suddenly for no real reason other than pure curiosity. I couldn't describe the impulse that made me kiss him; I still can't.

I just know it's the same impulse that makes me lift my hand to slap Beetee across the face.

I slap his other cheek as well, leaving Beetee staring at me with two bloody handprints on either side of his face. He seems completely stunned.

"Well," he says after regaining his composure. "I guess I deserved that."

That does it. I start to bawl. In spite of everything I've put him through—I've put him through so much, too much—he gently slips his arms around me, pulling me into his embrace. "Don't cry, honey," Beetee murmurs. "It's okay. It really is."

"N-no, it's not," I sob into his shoulder. "All I want—is to be with you again, b-but—Beetee, I just can't do it, I can't!"

"I understand," he says quietly.

"But you're in so much p-pain! Because of m-me!"

"Wiress, all I want is to be with you. When you said…we couldn't be together…baby, you don't know how much that hurt. You really don't. All I've ever had are frustrations and disappointments, and it seemed like you'd just be another one."

"I'm s-sorry for d-disappointing you…"

"You didn't disappoint me, love. I'm not done. You weren't a disappointment; I had you for a little while, and that means something. I changed at least one person's life for the better by my existence. That counts for something," he says calmly, idly stroking my back, my hair.

"So…you mean by loving me…it means you can love again," I infer tearfully, feeling grateful, but Beetee shakes his head.

"I'll never love anyone but you," he says solemnly. "No one but you, Wiress."

A small sob catches in my throat and Beetee reluctantly takes a step backward. "I really am sorry for what I said to you, Wiress, love," he says quietly, slowly backing toward the door. "I love you. I'll love you no matter how far you choose to go. It's your life. I shouldn't interfere."

"That's not what I—"

"Just know that I'll be waiting for the day you decide that you love me more than you fear me; I'll be waiting for the day you decide to come back to me, Wiress MacDanielle."

Beetee leaves again, shutting the door much more gently this time. I sink to my knees, lapsing into racking sobs.

He didn't yell at me. It's tearing him apart but he'll let me leave because he loves me. He loves me enough to let me go. He didn't get angry or lose his temper—but why did it hurt less when Beetee _did _yell at me? Was it because I could then pretend _I _was the only one in pain? Now I know that Beetee is in just as much pain as I am—and waiting for a day that will probably never come.

I touch my cheek. Those horrible choking sounds are still coming out of me, but my eyes are strangely dry. I slowly undress, still gasping for air, and climb into bed in just my underclothes, staring at the ceiling, glad I can't see the stars—surely they would condemn me for what I am, a selfish, childish girl who only seeks to gain. But she just lost everything she ever had.

_Beetee, I'm sorry. How can you still love me after everything I've put you through?_


	4. Chapter IV

For what feels like the first time, I sleep alone.

Monstrous visions corrupt my fragile mind, but this time I don't have Beetee to console me. It would be nothing short of cruel to go to his room in the dead of night, take what I want from him, and leave again with his hopes shattered. I've held him up so high on such a breakable thread; in this case, isolation _is _protection. For Beetee it is, anyway—for me, it's only making me retreat even deeper into my own mind. Soon I'll be so far gone I won't care what happens to Beetee anymore. About anything anymore.

_Maybe that really _would _be best_, I think tearfully as I finally drift off to sleep.

* * *

"Wiress. Wiress. Wi-_ress_," someone is saying while shaking my shoulders.

"Beetee?" I ask sleepily, but then I make out Violette, who is dragging me out of bed.

"We have to go," she says. "The train leaves in forty minutes; get dressed."

"What time is it?" I ask, rubbing my eyes with my knuckles like a child.

"Maybe three in the morning," she says absently, handing me my clothes. I gape at her.

"Why are we leaving so early?" I ask, dumbfounded. Violette sighs.

"We're taking the earliest train so that we can be in District Three by nightfall."

"I'll…I'll be home by nightfall?" I whisper in awe.

"Yes," says Violette. She leaves me alone to get dressed.

Home. My family. One of the reasons I gave up Beetee. I'll see them tonight. I'll sleep in my own bed tonight. I'll move past this.

Violette comes back in just as I'm pulling on my shoes. "Do you have everything?" she asks.

I nod, gripping my arms. "Let's go."

Violette takes my hand and leads me down the hallway. Beetee is pacing in front of the double doors leading out. He opens the door when he sees us, but he freezes in the doorway. Terror petrifies me; whatever Beetee is afraid of is something I should fear as well.

Violette walks up to him. "What?"

She lays a hand on his shoulder but he throws it off, his chest heaving. Beetee steps back into the brightly lit corridor, his face white.

Comprehension dawns on Violette and she leaves, returning with a small flashlight. She gives it to Beetee who immediately turns it on, seeming relieved. With Beetee and his flashlight in front the three of us walk into the inky morning to the car that will take us to the train depot. Every step Beetee takes seems to require tremendous effort, and even in the low light, I can see him trembling.

I catch up with Violette, seeking an explanation for Beetee's stranger-than-usual behavior.

"Beetee was blindfolded while he was being tortured," she explains in a low murmur only I can hear. "He spent the entire time blindfolded, so I guess you could say he's…"

"Afraid of the dark?" I whisper in shock.

Violette nods slightly. "That about sums it up."

Bile rises in the back of my throat. The bravest man I know is afraid of the dark because of something _I _put him through.

Beetee turns on the light in the car as soon as we get in and his whole body relaxes; he rubs his arms as if to keep warm, breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" I ask timidly, knowing I shouldn't.

Our eyes meet; his are bloodshot and agonized-looking. Tears well in mine. No. He isn't okay. He's as far from _okay _as he can get.

We reach the train depot soon enough. Beetee takes out his little flashlight again and illuminates the path to the train, trying to keep from shaking; his efforts are all but futile. I've never felt so guilty; I've not only wounded him physically and emotionally, I've wounded him mentally as well.

The train is brightly lit even at this hour and starts moving as soon as we're aboard. Without speaking the three of us go to our separate rooms to sleep for a few more hours. I look at Beetee; he still looks clammy, emotionally wrung out by the experience. I should say something, take his hand and hold it in mine, kiss his wan cheek,_ something_. But I leave without saying or doing anything.

Despite my exhaustion, when I crawl into bed I find myself unable to sleep. I lay awake thinking about the Games, about Beetee and how he loved me (_Loves_, I correctly desperately, _he still loves me_) and about home. Home, home, home.

_Everything will be alright again_, I think unconvincingly as my eyes mercifully close, shutting out my hellish world.

I sleep late the next morning, waking only when Violette marches in and flips on the light, flooding the room with its unnaturally bright rays.

I moan and shove the pillow over my head, not wanting to face the day quite yet.

"Come on, Wiress, get up," says Violette irritably, sitting on my bed and shaking my shoulders again. "Rochellita said so."

I'm paralyzed by fear. Not Rochellita. Dear Lord, not her. The demonic escort who got my Beetee (_He's not yours anymore_, the cold voice hisses) arrested and tortured. No. Please, no.

I shake my head.

"Wiress," Violette says gently, "it's eleven in the morning. I spoke with the conductor a little while ago; we'll be back in Three by eight o'clock tonight."

A rare drop of sunlight shines on my heart. District 3. My home. I'll be there in less than twelve hours.

This thought motivates me to get out of bed. Violette smiles encouragingly and leaves.

I decide to take a shower. I make sure that the bathroom door is locked; then I slowly unbutton my blouse, pulling it off and letting it drop on the floor. I slide my skirt down my legs, do the same with my underpants, and yank my undershirt over my head. I unhook my bra and let it slide down my arms. Then I observe my naked body in the mirror on the bathroom door.

Surprisingly, I don't look much different than I did almost three weeks ago. Maybe a bit thinner. The way I hold myself is much different, though: much less confident, much more vulnerable-looking. I dislike the intense scrutiny of my reflections haunted-looking brown eyes.

I turn away, shivering, and turn on the bathwater as hot as it can be without scalding me. I climb into the tub, laying on my back and letting the water fill my ears. I can hardly hear my voice as I sing my mother's lullaby, longing to hear my _ex_-lover's voice singing with me.

_Let him go_, I think to myself. I do my best not to cry. Beetee, Beetee, Beetee, my strong, strong Beetee. _I love you, oh Beetee, I still love you._

I can think of nothing more rewarding than Beetee and me living together as man and wife. No fear. Definitely not that. Just love, love, love. Beetee and Wiress, a match made in heaven.

Like many teenage girls I begin daydreaming. I dream of a world where Beetee and I _could _live as a married couple. We'd live in a house away from prying eyes, where no one ever questioned our love. _Love is love_, they'd say. No worries, no sorrow, no fear. Husband and wife, together forever and ever. Wiress MacDanielle and Beetee Jarvis. Wiress Jarvis. I like the sound of it. Beetee and Wiress Jarvis. So _right_.

And maybe then I could have his children…

I sit up with a gasp, instinctively crossing my arms over my bare chest. No. There _is _no Beetee and me. Not anymore. We will not—cannot—get married. I won't have his children, for crying out loud. Don't _even _go there.

I impatiently wipe away my tears and someone raps on my door. "Quit your hiding, girl!" yells Rochellita.

I shudder and rise, wrapping myself in a fluffy white towel. I dry off and put my clothes back on without even bothering to wash them. _What's the point? _I ask myself miserably.

I drain the bathtub and dry my hair as well as I can; then I go back into the room, nearly running into Rochellita.

"Ah, there you are," she says. "Come along."

I follow her to the living room of the train. Violette sits in an armchair, eying us warily.

"Now what happened to…ah, there he is!" chirps the escort as Beetee walks in. She seems very happy to see him…a little _too _happy if you ask me.

I watch Beetee almost possessively, even though he isn't mine anymore. His dark, expressive eyes are deeply set with purple shadows underneath. He hasn't slept. I was kidding myself if I thought he would.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Rochellita says pleasantly to him as he sits on the sofa rubbing his temples, seeming exhausted. My heart aches for him. I should sit next to him… but then again, I shouldn't tease him or give him false hope, so I settle into another armchair across from Violette.

Rochellita drifts toward the wall for what seems to be no reason at all. "It's a relief you've gotten well so quickly," she says airily. She touches what appears to be a light switch. My heart stops and Violette leaps to her feet just as Rochellita casually turns the lights off.

The day is overcast, so the room becomes considerably dark—dark enough for Beetee's nyctophobia to kick in. His reaction to the sudden darkness is immediate and terrifying.

Poor Beetee starts gasping for air, clutching the sides of his head with his hands. His joints are tense and he rocks back and forth involuntarily. Horrible rasping sounds come out of his throat, as if he's trying to scream but can't find his voice. I'm encased in terror as I watch Beetee's anxiety attack, unable to move.

Violette storms over to another light switch and flips the lights back on. Beetee relaxes, shuddering; I hurry to his side and take his hands in mine, warming them with my touch. He turns to me and buries his face in my shoulder; I move my hands up and down his arms, whispering, "It's okay. You're okay. No one's going to hurt you."

It seems to take an eternity to get him to stop shaking. He sits up, mastering control of his breathing. I take his white face in my hands. "You're okay," I murmur again. He nods; our eyes meet and he pulls away slightly, uncomfortable with our close proximity. He rises and crosses the room to go to his own, but Rochellita turns the lights off again.

Beetee freezes in place and slowly sinks to his knees, crushing his skull with his hands again. I cry out, feeling his pain as if it were my own.

Violette turns on the lights, but Rochellita turns them back off. This continues and Beetee curls into the fetal position, moaning and shuddering violently. I run over to him, shaking his shoulders.

"Beetee, snap out of it! Beetee, you're safe, no one's going to hurt you. Beetee, _snap out of __it!_"

Beetee doesn't respond. He can't because he's not here anymore. He's in that room under the Training Center being tortured for information he won't give, tied up and blindfolded, terrified and alone, far away where no one can save him. Alone. He's all alone. His worst nightmare.

Beetee doesn't react to my touch except by curling up tighter, a shuddering groan escaping his lips. I start crying, still attempting to rouse Beetee while Rochellita and Violette turn the lights on and off, on and off.

"Stop it!" I scream at them. "Can't you see it's hurting him?! Stop it, please!"

They do, probably out of surprise; I've been quiet since my return from the Games, and my outburst has officially broken my silence. Violette flips on the lights for the last time. Then she comes over to Beetee, gently touching his shoulders. "Beetee," she says quietly. "Beetee. C'mon, Jarvis, get up."

"Let me," I tell her softly. Somehow I know that I am the only person who can bring Beetee out of his catatonic state.

Violette understands this and nods, retreating to her own room.

"Beetee, you're safe," I whisper gently, brushing his hair away from the back of his neck. "It's just me. Wiress. No one is going to hurt you. I promise."

Then I see Rochellita out of the corner of my eye.

"Haven't you done enough?" I snap without looking at her. She huffs haughtily and leaves.

"Come on, Beetee," I say gently to him. He relaxes a bit and I help him to his feet. He can walk but I have to pull him along.

I bring Beetee to his bedroom and sit him on his bed, going to his bathroom to drench a washcloth in warm water. I wring it out and return to Beetee. I work off his glasses, shirt, and undershirt, gently massaging the tender skin of his back and chest. I sing to him, and when he seems semi-calm I put his shirt and undershirt back on. I put the washcloth away and place gentle kisses on his eyelids, nose, cheeks, and lips without any fear of him wanting more than I'm willing to give.

After a little while, Beetee finally speaks. "You're something amazing, Wiress."

I smile and kiss his forehead. "There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you," I reply softly.

Beetee's face contorts with pain. "But you're still leaving me, aren't you?" he asks bitterly.

A soft cry comes out of my throat. Beetee immediately says, "Oh, baby, I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that."

The pecking order goes back to normal; he pulls me close as I start crying again. Then I start laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asks, bewildered.

"Nothing!" I laugh, still sobbing; the result is a disgusting, phlegm-filled snorting sound.

"Then why are you laughing?" Beetee asks.

"I'm laughing _because _it's not funny! I—I'm in the shittiest situation possible and I'm the _last _person who should be l-laughing! That's the joke! Isn't it awful?"

I keep laughing and crying. Beetee consoles me, a little awkwardly, and soon we're silent.

I get to my feet and leave the room without another word. As soon as Beetee's door is closed I'm crying again, without laughter this time. Dammit, why am I crying so much? It's ironic: the minute I think I'm an adult, I start spontaneously bursting into tears every few minutes.

For some reason, I go back to the living room. "How is he?" asks Violette, who must've returned sometime earlier.

"He's fine," I say wearily, longing for some kind of normalcy.

"Good," says Violette, relieved. "Are you hungry?"

I shake my head.

"Wiress, you haven't eaten a decent meal since before the Games. You need to eat," she insists.

I sigh; there's rarely a point in arguing with Violette. At her urging I force myself to eat the largest meal I've had in quite a while. I eventually start feigning nausea so that Violette lets me go back to my room, and once I'm there I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick the hours away. After a few minutes I turn on my side to look at it; one o'clock. Only seven hours left.

I spend the next seven hours struggling to find ways to entertain myself.

I find a small library (part of me is fascinated that one thought to put a library on a train) but my random selection of books yields nothing that captures my interest for more than ten minutes. I go back to the living room, but I have no patience for television. My frustration builds as I wander around, constantly looking out the windows and at the clock, silently begging for time to speed up.

Violette brings me to the dining area for dinner; although the food smells delicious and I'm starting to get my appetite back, I can't eat a thing due to anxiety. I'm excited and overjoyed about returning home, but I'm nervous as well. Will Raphela and my father still want me and see me as (mostly) the same person? I'll tell them the _real _story, of course, but even so…what if they just see me as just another killer, or even worse, as a no-good whore, like the rest of Panem sees me?

_Stop that, _I tell myself firmly. _Raphela and Father love you for _who you are_. You're still sweet little Wiress to them in spite of any poor decisions you made in the face of danger_.

I retreat to my room after dinner and lay and wait until finally, Violette comes into my room. "We're here," she says in a quiet, solemn voice.

I'm suddenly unable to move. "Is there anyone…"

"There is absolutely no one here but us," she says. "All camera crews have been ordered to leave you alone."

I'm filled with relief. "They listened to you?" I ask in mild surprise as I put on my shoes.

"They weren't my orders," Violette says in a strange voice.

"Whose…whose were they?" I ask slowly, but I fear I already know the answer.

"President Snow's," she confirms. My heart sinks.

"What did…the president…think of my…my interview?" I ask in a frightened whisper.

"He hasn't disclosed his opinion of it as of yet," she responds. Tears sting my eyes. _Was I not good enough? I've made a mockery of myself in front of the entire world and slandered the reputation of the one man I love...is that not enough? _

"Wiress, everything is fine," Violette says reassuringly, pulling me out of my contemplation. "If he was dissatisfied, believe me, he'd say so."

I try to find some comfort in her words, taking deep breaths. "I'm ready," I say finally.

We meander down the halls until we reach the door; I stare out at the solid black night that is so plentiful in District 3 due to smog. _My home_.

"What about Beetee?" I ask, delaying the eventual goodbye between me and Violette.

"I'm taking him home," she says. I shift uncomfortably. _That _will most certainly be an awkward walk, but at least he'll feel safe. "You're more than welcome to come with us."

"No thank you," I say softly without looking at her.

"I'd feel more comfortable if you let me walk you home…"

"Really, I'm fine. I'm fine." I look into the dark brown eyes of my mentor, my ally, my friend. "I guess…this is goodbye," I say quietly.

Violette hugs me. "For now, anyway."

I nod, hugging her back, not speaking for fear that I'll start to cry.

I pull away, but at the last moment, Violette says, "Wait."

She takes off her gray hooded sweatshirt and gives it to me. I push it back to her with weak protest—rather like I did with Janine, my ally in the Games, and a backpack I'd gotten—but thickly she says, "It looks like it might rain."

Her voice takes me slightly off guard; this is the closest Violette has ever been to tears.

I put on her sweatshirt and give her another hug. "Don't leave him alone, Violette. Stay with him when he's missing me. Give him my love."

Violette nods. "Of course," she whispers. "Take care."

We pull apart for the last time and I start my walk home.

I had never been to the train station prior to the Games but these streets are so familiar I could walk them in my sleep, even when they're blanketed in darkness as they are now. I inhale the smell of soot and chemicals as if it's the sweetest perfume, because that's what it is to me. The warm winds are like caressing fingers on my skin; as Violette predicted, it soon starts raining, so I put on her hood and continue on.

I soon reach about a half a mile length of stone wall about six feet tall; the occasional flashes of lightning illuminate the little notches my sister and I found almost ten years ago. I climb the wall as we've done many times and sit on top, leaning back on my hands and observing my view of the Victor's Village. I can see the lights on in what I think is Beetee's house. I wonder if he's lying awake, thinking about me…I sigh. I have a house there now too, probably right next door to Beetee. I'm extremely reluctant to move in, though, for this reason and because I prefer my old house, but I can already hear Raphela insisting. My sister, the ever-practical one.

I remember Raphela and me sitting on this wall only a few days after our mother's murder. It was twilight; we sat with our arms around each other, staring at that big huge sky that looked like it could and would swallow us whole.

Slightly uncharacteristically, I broke the silence. "Why does bad stuff happen, Ray?" I asked tearfully.

She sighed, seeming much wiser than me even at age eleven. "I dunno, Ressie," she said, using her old nickname for me that I only let her use when I was distraught. "It just does. But we'll be okay."

"What if…what if they want me, too?" I whispered; the slightly childish fear seemed all too real in the surreal feel of the night.

"I'm gonna protect you, Ressie."

I meant to ask _how_, but the question I asked instead was, "Why?"

She seemed a little shocked by the question. "'Cause I'm your big sister, Ress," she said simply.

I wipe the tears away. "I love you, Raphela," I whisper.

I carefully climb down and resume my walk, picking up my pace. The rain is coming down harder and the flashes of lightning are much more frequent. I'm not that much farther. It's only about a mile…a half a mile…I start running.

I reach my house.

I stare at the front door in awe. I'm home. Really, really home. I open the door, trembling with excitement and nervous and almost crying tears of relief.

It's completely dark inside. My fingers fumble for the light switch I've turned on a thousand times. "Hello?" I call a little uncertainly, unnerved by the deafening silence. _It's like a morgue in here, _I think before hastily shaking my head. _No, no, no._

No one answers. The light doesn't turn on. _Odd_, I think apprehensively.

I slowly make my way through the living room. "Hello?" I call again, a little louder this time. Still no answer. I hear a crunching sound under my feet. It sounds like broken glass.

Perspiration forms on the back of my neck. My heart thumps unevenly. "Hello? Raphela? Father? _Hello?_" I shout, feeling afraid now. I grope for the lamp next to the sofa, but my blind search reveals that it's turned on its side on the little table. I cut my finger on a shard of glass that must have come from the light bulb.

"_Hello?_" I cry frantically. "Answer me, please!"

Lightning flashes then, bright, white, and damning. It flashes long enough for me to see the dark red stains of dried blood splattered all over the room, especially right under my feet.

And it flashes long enough for me to see the noose still hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

I scream then, an unintelligible mixture of horror and agony. "No!" I shout, refusing to believe what I'm seeing.

My body reacts before my mind does and before I know it I'm running as fast as I can, trying to shut out the horrific images that flood my brain, the possible causes of the grisly scene I just left. Soon enough I reach me and my sister's wall, realizing where my instincts are taking me. To Beetee.

I climb feverishly and jump down, but I land funny on my ankle. It twists and I cry out in pain.

"Shit!" I scream, no longer caring if anyone hears. I have to get to Beetee.

I stand up and continue running, doing my best to ignore the almost blinding pains shooting up my leg and no doubt ruining my ankle forever. I don't care at the moment. Beetee. Must get to Beetee…

After almost an eternity, I reach his house. I start pounding on the door, my throat constricted to fear.

Beetee answers after what feels like a year, his skin and hair shining with moisture; he isn't wearing a shirt, he has a towel draped over his shoulders, and even now he's yanking his pants on and fumbling with the button, so I assume he was in the shower. He sees me and gasps, immediately realizing that something is very wrong.

"Wiress," he says, taking my hand and attempting to lead me inside; my ankle hinders me greatly, so he picks me up and lays me on the couch. I cling to his wet skin desperately, panting for breath. "What's wrong? What happened? Talk to me."

"Gone!" I gasp, crying from the pain in my ankle. "G-gone…"

"_Who's _gone?" Beetee asks urgently. "Baby, you have to talk to me. _What happened?_"

I keep panting, unable to speak.

"Wiress, _talk to me!_" Beetee shouts, shaking my shoulders.

"They're gone!" I cry out. "Raphela and my father, they're gone!"


	5. Chapter V

Beetee tends to me before asking any questions. He helps me out of my wet clothes and puts me in one of his T-shirts until they're dry. Then he takes off my shoes to look at my ankle.

It takes a while for him to get my right shoe off because every little movement sends blinding pain up my leg like lightning. I try to stifle my cries of agony for Beetee's sake, but it's really no use.

"Hold still," he says finally. I grit my teeth and he yanks my shoe off. I start crying because it hurts so much. Beetee brushes my hair away from my face. "Honey, I'm sorry I put you through that. I know it hurts. I'll be right back."

His lips touch mine briefly and he leaves me to fret and worry. _What happened to Father and Raphela?_

Beetee returns with two long wooden spoons and some gauze. I stare at him questioningly through my tears and he gingerly places the spoons on either side of my ankle, then wraps the whole thing in gauze, making my ankle immobile. I have to applaud his ingenuity.

He props my ankle up on a small pillow and goes to the kitchen to get ice. He gently puts a small bag of it on my ankle, but while this soothes the pain and reduces the swelling, it leaves me very cold. He solves this by getting a blanket and wrapping it around my torso, then putting a steaming mug in my hands. "Drink this, love," he tells me.

"What is it?" I ask before taking a sip. Very earthy.

"Tea," he says softly. I drink quickly; Beetee takes the empty mug from me when I've finished and sets it on the small coffee table in front of the couch. Then he sits next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder, enveloping me in his warmth. I lean against him.

"What happened, baby?" he asks gently. He combs my hair with his fingers. "Talk to me."

I sigh, tearing up again. "I don't really know," I say slowly. "I just walked into the h-house and the lights wouldn't turn on, and a window was b-broken, and there was a n-n-noose hanging from the c-ceiling… and blood, blood _everywhere_… and no one was there…"

He holds me tighter.

"I think… I mean, what if they're… dead?" I ask, my voice a whisper.

Beetee sighs. "The scene might have been staged to scare you," he says in an effort to console me.

"Then where _are _they?" I ask desperately. He sighs again and rises.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to sound so impatient," I say quickly, scared he might be angry.

But he isn't. Instead he says, "I'm going to find out what happened to your father and Raphela." He pauses. "What's your father's first name?"

"Runo," I say shakily. It feels odd, using Father's first name. "His name is Runo MacDanielle."

Beetee leaves and finishes getting dressed. When he returns he's wearing boots and a jacket, and he carries a large flashlight.

"Oh, Beetee, you don't have to do this—"

"Yes, I do. You care about Runo and Raphela more than anything in the world. I couldn't say I loved you if I didn't do everything in my power to either bring them back to you or at least find out what happened to them," he says firmly. He positions me so that I'm lying on my back, and he covers me with the blanket. "I know this isn't very comfortable, but do try and sleep until I get back."

"Please don't leave me," I whisper. "I'm so lost without you."

He kisses my forehead. "I'll be back soon, darling. I promise. Go to sleep; I'll be back by the time you wake up." He gently kisses each of my eyes, then my lips. "I love you, Wiress," he says quietly, tracing my jawline with his fingertips.

"I love you too, Beetee," I murmur, knowing there's nothing I can do to stop him. "Please be safe."

Beetee nods and opens the door, putting on his hood. He turns on his flashlight and steps into the dark night, closing the door behind him.

The minute he's gone I long to have him back. What if he's walking right into a trap?

I can't lose him too.

_Stop that, _I tell myself._ Raphela and Father might be alive…_

_The power of wishful thinking, sweetheart, _a familiar voice murmurs in frigid tones. I shiver.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over and I fall asleep, dreaming of all the ways my father and sister could have been exterminated.

* * *

I wake up suddenly with a sharp cry, still seeing the horrific images that plagued me in my dreams. My father hanging from that noose, then Raphela, then Beetee, Marcelle, my mother…

I look around; I don't recognize my surroundings, which terrifies me. I'm in a medium-sized room illuminated by a single lamp next to the bed, which is where I'm laying. The room is void of any real personal touches that make it a home…dear God, am I back in the Capitol?

"Beetee!" I cry out, terrified our reunion was only a dream, that's he's really dead, or even worse, has been taken prisoner and is being tortured again right now. But Beetee runs into the room and sits next to me, brushing my hair away from my face and wrapping his arms around me. I sob into his chest, relieved.

"Honey, it's okay," he murmurs. "It's okay."

I pull away after a moment and survey my surroundings again, realizing with a pang of obviousness that I overreacted. This is Beetee's bedroom.

"What…" I look into Beetee's dark brown eyes, searching for an answer. "What happened?"

His expression turns bleak. "Wiress, it's almost one o'clock in the morning…are you sure you don't want to wait…?"

"Beetee, I have to know _now_," I say urgently. "What happened? Where are Raphela and my father?"

Beetee sighs and lowers his lips into my hair. "They're dead," he says finally, his voice unnaturally quiet. "They died. They've already been buried."

I have to say I'm not very surprised. I guess I suspected it all along. It still hurts, though. Oh, yes, it still hurts. I don't cry, though. Not yet. Something tells me to save my tears for later. "What… what happened?" I ask, quivering with fear. _Quick and painless…let it have been quick and painless_…

Beetee's pale face becomes whiter. "Baby, you really don't want to know," he says slowly.

"I have to know," I say desperately, reminding myself of when I forced Beetee to show me the scars on his back and chest, a physical reminder of his devotion toward me—in his eyes, anyway. In mine they're a physical reminder of how irrational his unwavering affection toward me really is.

Beetee sighs again. "You really want to know _now_?"

"Yes," I whisper. "I have to know now."

He gently kisses my forehead. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to blame yourself, because it _isn't your fault_. This was Snow's doing, not yours—"

Beetee stops abruptly, realizing the extent of what he just said.

"_Snow's _doing? _Snow _had my family killed?" I ask, my voice higher with shock. "Then it _is _my fault!"

"Wiress, it isn't your fault—"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, honey, it isn't. It _isn't_," he repeats. "I won't tell you what happened if you keep saying it's your fault."

"But it _is_…"

Beetee shakes my shoulders. "Repeat after me," he says firmly. I drop my gaze but he tilts my chin up so that I'm staring headlong into his beautiful eyes. "'I am not a bad person. I am a very good person to whom bad things have happened. None of the unfortunate deaths that have occurred to people around me—including my sister, my father, and Raellen—are my fault. I will no longer blame myself for what has happened to them.'"

I stare at him incredulously. "Say it," Beetee tells me.

"But it's not—"

"It is one hundred percent true, Wiress MacDanielle," Beetee interrupts. "Now say it."

I sigh and repeat his words. "I am not a bad person. I am a very good person to whom bad things have happened. None of the unfortunate deaths that have occurred to people around me—including my sister, my father, and Raellen—are my fault. I will no longer blame myself for what has happened to them."

Beetee makes me repeat those words two more times before he's satisfied. "Now tell me what happened," I say anxiously.

Beetee moves so that he's sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. I snuggle close, inhaling his scent, reassured by his presence alone. "The actual story hasn't been released to the general public and probably never will be," he begins, "but one of your neighbors saw what happened. To the best of my knowledge, she's being bribed by the Head Peacekeeper, Remus Freeman, not to tell anyone, but let's just say I have my own means of getting information from people."

I gulp. I never want to know what Beetee did to that woman to make her confess.

"A few Peacekeepers—including Freeman—went to your house about a week ago and demanded to see your sister, Raphela. When she went into the living room…"

"What?" I ask when Beetee doesn't finish. "What happened next?"

"According to your neighbor, Freeman hit her in the face and knocked her to the ground," he says slowly, turning his gaze to the opposite wall. "Two other Peacekeepers went to your father and handcuffed him. They didn't hit him, though, but the other three or four continued to beat Raphela. They forced Runo to watch."

My heart drops to my stomach. I don't want to hear anymore, but at the same time, I have to continue listening because I have to know what I put them through. Beetee continues in a monotone. "Runo pleaded with the Peacekeepers to leave Raphela alone, but they ignored him. Raphela… Raphela was raped by at least one of the men attacking her, and in the process she was beat half to death. When they were…done with her…they dragged her outside. She was practically lifeless at this point; your neighbor said she would've thought Raphela was dead if she hadn't seen her chest moving."

_Oh, Raphela…I'm so sorry_, I think tearfully.

"Freeman pulled out a gun while the men holding Runo brought him outside. He was an emotional wreck at this point. Freeman shot Raphela once in the back of the head."

It's hideously ironic. In a way, Raphela _did _get the quick and painless death I'd hoped for…but only after she was bludgeoned half to death, and then raped…I can imagine Raphela screaming, fighting for her life, but an underweight nineteen-year-old girl would have been no match against three armed Capitol men.

I remember the noose and put two and two together, but Beetee finishes by saying, "Runo hung himself three days later."

Something isn't quite right. "Beetee…why would my father kill himself if he knew I had lived?"

He sighs again. "Wiress…after Raphela was shot, Runo asked if Freeman felt they had done enough. 'You've murdered my wife and my eldest daughter,' he said furiously, 'and you almost took my youngest daughter away from me.'

"Freeman started laughing. Runo lost his composure and said in a tremulous voice, 'Why do you laugh like that?'

"'You think we _almost _took your youngest daughter away?' he asked.

"Runo gasped. 'What happened to Wiress?' he asked desperately. 'Tell me what you've done with my daughter!'

"'It isn't what _I've _done,' said Freeman. 'It's what she's done to herself. That slut of yours killed herself after the Games ended.'

"'No,' said Runo, refusing to believe it. 'She lived! I know she did!'

"'That little whore is dead, Runo,' Freeman told him before leaving. 'If you ask me, you're better off without her. Beetee…'"

Beetee stops again. "What about you?" I ask anxiously.

"'Beetee Jarvis most certainly would have been,'" he concludes in a whisper.

My heart stops.

"The dialogue is almost word-for-word; your neighbor said she'd never forget it," Beetee adds softly. He notices my frozen expression. "Wiress? Baby, are you okay?"

"They loved me so much," I whisper, "and this is how I've repaid them."

"Wiress—"

"How could I have been so damned selfish?" I ask frantically, tears pouring down my face.

"Honey, it isn't your fault; this is how Snow wants you to react—"

"I wish I were dead!"

"Baby, please stop—"

"I wish I would just die! I want it to hurt so I know what Raphela went through, what Raellen went through! Better yet, just set me on fire so that I can die like Marcelle!"

Beetee's crying as he says, "Baby, please, please stop. I know it hurts, Wiress, I know it does, but baby, it isn't your fault—"

"I wish," I sob, not hearing his pleas, "I had never been born. Everyone would be better off had I never been born!"

Beetee doesn't respond at first. He just holds me until my sobs die down. Then in a constricted voice he says, "You think everyone would be better off if you had never been born? Everyone?"

I nod, wiping away stray tears.

To my slight surprise he gets up and goes to his dresser. He pulls out the top drawer, takes out a small box the size of a child's shoebox, and pushes the drawer back in with his hip, returning to sit next to me on the bed.

"Before you came along," he says in that same strangled voice, staring down at the box in his lap with some sick kind of affection, yet also with loathing, "this is what was keeping me sane."

Beetee hands his box to me. I notice four numbers etched into the top: seventeen, twenty, twenty-three, and twenty-five. Our eyes meet.

"Open it," Beetee says softly. I hesitate. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Open it."

I do. I gasp when I see what's inside. "Oh, Beetee," I whisper.

His box is full of razor blades.

Beetee wraps his arm around my waist. "Only this has kept me sane," he whispers. "Knowing...knowing that I had a way out, if I ever chose to take it."

I look at those numbers again. Seventeen. Twenty. Twenty-three. Twenty-five. It hits me like a truckload of bricks.

"You _have _chosen to take it," I whisper. "Four times since you won. At ages seventeen, twenty, twenty-three and…oh, Beetee, you're twenty-five now!"

Beetee simply rolls up his left shirtsleeve to his elbow and holds his arm out, palm up. I draw in a startled breath.

When I observed the scars inflicted upon my lover during the Capitol's cruel interrogation I hardly noticed any on his arms. But as I look now, I see scars on the underside of his left arm, two- or three-inch long cuts that overlap, some of them newer than others. But unlike the scars on his back and chest, these wounds were definitely self-inflicted.

Violette told me that Beetee was living a very unhealthy life. She never mentioned that he was a cutter, or _suicidal_. Beetee, suicidal? Not Beetee, my lifeline, who is so strong, who is continuously being knocked down but keeps getting back up…

"Beetee," I whisper, looking into his eyes. "Oh, Beetee…" I'm unable to say anything else, hardly able to believe what I know about him now. Four suicide attempts in eight years. That's about one every two years. To lose the will to live not once but four times in such a short period of time…_and then I was going to leave him…_

"Do you want to know," he says quietly, "why I went into your room that day on the train?"

Dear God, I'm not sure if I do. But he's going to tell me anyway, I know he is, because I know him. At least, I thought I did…

Beetee gently takes my hand and uses my finger to point to three cuts that look the newest. "I realized," he says slowly, his eyes gauging my reaction, "I had forgotten to leave a note. So…I went to ask you if I could borrow a pen."

I look at him in shock. Not Beetee. Beetee, who, even then, had seemed so stable…is he just as unhinged as I am, but has the miraculous (or truly disastrous) ability to hide it? The idea is horrifying—I need someone _sane _to hold on to—but at the same time, it's strangely comforting. Beetee, just as insane as I am…I won't feel so alone anymore…I shake my head. _No, Wiress… unlike you, Beetee _isn't _crazy. He's just been very lonely for a very long time—what kind of person were you to leave him?_

Beetee pulls me out of my contemplation by taking my face in his hands, wiping my tears away with the backs of his thumbs. "I went into your room with the intention of ending my life. When I left I realized I had fallen madly in love with you, but it was more than that—you gave me something to believe in. If you had never been born, I'd probably be dead. I'm much better off loving you, don't you think?" He smiles slightly, winning me over instantly.

I wrap my arms around his neck; Beetee pulls me into his lap, careful of my ankle, and consoles me with his gentle kisses and caresses.

"I love you," he murmurs against my throat, moving his lips up my jaw, nibbling my ear. "I love you so much. I owe you my life, beautiful girl. I really do."

Beetee pulls away slightly when he feels me shiver, but afterward I realize it wasn't entirely out of discomfort—my boundary has become less defined, enough for Beetee to feel the difference.

Beetee goes to his bathroom and undresses for bed; then he stretches out beside me and pulls me close. I inhale his soot-aluminum-water-and-honey scent and snuggle close against his warm skin, seeking reassurance, comfort, normalcy.

My life will never be the same. Raphela and my father are dead. But I have Beetee.

For now, that will be enough.


	6. Chapter VI

I cry in Beetee's arms all night. It's obviously torturing him, seeing me so sad, but he holds back any tears of his own and consoles me as best as he can.

I only sleep for about an hour. Beetee and I wake up early, and he asks me if I can walk.

I get out of bed, still dressed in Beetee's T-shirt, and gingerly try putting some weight on my ankle. It's not as painful as it was yesterday, but tears still come to my eyes. Beetee holds me by the waist and supports me so that I only have to put my slight weight on one foot.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs into my hair.

"Why?"

"If I hadn't been waiting for you to come back, you might not have been so careless…"

"Please don't blame yourself," I say softly, pivoting on my toes to face him. His hands move up to my back.

"You look beautiful, Wiress," he says quietly, stroking my back; I can feel his warm hands through the thin T-shirt, and I'm uncomfortably aware that I'm wearing nothing but my underpants underneath.

I pull away slightly; Beetee recognizes my discomfort and lets me go. He leaves and returns with my clothes, then asks, "Are you hungry?"

I nod. For the first time in a while, I actually am. Beetee leaves again and I get dressed, then hobble into the kitchen. I sit at the table and Beetee sits in front of me, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of each of us.

"I'm sorry if you wanted something more elaborate," he says, giving me a wry half-smile. "It's been years since I've had anyone over."

"Really?" I ask, picking up my fork and beginning to eat. Beetee's cooking ability isn't as poor as I expected it to be. He answers my question with a nod.

"Who have you had over?" I ask curiously.

Beetee's eyes darken. "Violette."

I have many questions about his relationship with Violette based on this response alone, but now isn't the time to ask them. Instead I sigh and say, "I have to go back to my house, Beetee. To see what I can salvage."

Beetee drops his fork in alarm. "What?!"

"I have to go back," I repeat solemnly.

"Wiress, it hasn't even been a whole day since you came home. Don't you want to wait, let your ankle heal…?"

"I have to go back," I say again.

He sighs. "I'm going with you," he says finally.

"I'd rather go alone…"

"I'm not letting you go alone," he tells me.

"Oh, Beetee…"

He takes my hand. "You need me, Wiress. True or false?"

"True," I whisper.

"You love me. Is that still true?"

"Of course it is," I say even more softly. "I… I love you."

"Is it hard for you to say that now/" he asks quietly.

"A little," I whisper shamefacedly.

Beetee doesn't comment. He puts the breakfast dishes in the sink and says, "There's rarely a point in trying to change your mind, Wiress."

"Are we leaving now?" I ask, getting to my feet.

"Let me get dressed first," he sighs. "Then we'll go."

Beetee takes his time getting dressed. I sit on his sofa, clicking my knees until he returns.

"Your ankle," he says. I rise.

"I'm fine," I tell him. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and helps me along.

We walk in silence, taking the back streets so that we aren't noticed. We reach my wall soon enough, but because of my ankle we go around. Soon we reach my house.

I sigh. Beetee squeezes my shoulders. "Honey, you don't have to do this," he says, but I shake my head.

"Yes, I do," I say softly.

I pull away from Beetee and open to door.

The house looks even worse in daylight.

Almost all of the furniture is upturned. Glass from the window litters the room. The floor is dark red with what I assume is Raphela's blood, especially in the middle of the room—this must be where the actual beating took place. There's a large blood smear from the bloodiest area to the door, which must be where she was dragged out of the house. Tears sting my eyes. _Raphela, I'm so sorry I put you through this. So, so sorry._

I slowly make my way to the kitchen, observing the noose swinging slightly and ominously in the drafts. Bloody footprints streak to floor… this must be where my father was held captive as well, forced to watch the slow, agonized death of his eldest daughter…

I meander down the hall to my father's bedroom, and what I find there is a shock.

I hear Beetee's footsteps behind me, and then a gasp. "Holy shit," he whispers in horror.

The room looks like a tornado went through it.

Every piece of furniture is demolished; the grayish wood is splintered and streaked with black, as if it they've been with flame. I hurry to the bedside and start shoving debris out of the way, looking for Father's little box of photographs. I find it soon enough, and the box is intact, but all I find inside is ash. I utter a mournful cry. Gone. Like they never even existed.

I drop the box of destroyed memories and run to the next room—Raphela's room. A similar scene awaits me.

I go to her small dresser—no more than a pile of wood fragments now—and search for an article of her clothing, but I find only charred pieces of cloth.

Crying now, I go to the last bedroom—_my _bedroom. Not surprisingly, everything is intact… everything but the little alarm clock I made myself when I was seven. I go to my nightstand and pick it up; it's no more than a useless chunk of metal and wire. I know why they sought to destroy this—it had my mother's voice recorded on it, my mother, who rebelled against the Capitol by taking a whipping for a small child and was then executed.

I throw my ruined treasure to the opposite side of the room in disgust and go to my dresser, kneeling in front of it and pulling out the bottom drawer, praying they didn't find it… _they didn't_. Raphela's prized possession, a black nightgown covered in lace.

Raphela purchased this on Parcel Day after Beetee's Games. I can remember the joy on her face as she showed it to me and our parents, spinning on her toes like a ballet dancer and laughing gleefully. Her excitement infected me as well until I saw my father's look of concern.

Mother seemed to understand; she touched his hand and their eyes met.

"Clea, surely a ten-year-old doesn't need to wear lingerie," he murmured.

"Oh, Runo, don't be such a prude," Mother chastised lightly, smiling warmly. "She doesn't mean anything provocative by it." I can remember I had no idea what the word meant, though I do now. "For Panem's sake, she's only a child."

Father smiled back; I wondered why they looked at each other so funny.

When Raphela tried on her nightgown for the first time it was very loose around her breasts and hips, as it was meant for someone much curvier than she was. Nevertheless, Raphela was ecstatic to finally own something she deemed pretty. She didn't wear much in those early years because it was too big, but she always kept it around.

When Raphela was fifteen she tried on that gown again. I watched her admiringly, enviously: the black lacy material clung to her shapely figure, and black flattered her nicely, making her seem like Snow White's younger, better-looking sister. _Oh, please let me look like that someday_, I thought longingly at age thirteen.

Raphela wore it around the house, but when Father saw, he told her to change into something more decent.

"Why?" demanded my older sister, her hands on her hips. "No one is going to see it!"

"Raphela, do as I say," said Father firmly.

"No!" she cried.

"_Now_, Raphela," he repeated. I shrank into the background, disliking confrontation.

Raphela burst into tears. "No one in this damned place is allowed to have nice things!" she sobbed, glaring at our father through her tears."

"Raphela MacDanielle, you will not speak to your father in that manner; you will do as I say and change into something more modest. Then you dispose of that dress immediately," Father said authoritatively.

Raphela ran to her room and slammed the door so hard it shook the whole house. She refused to talk to either Father or me for the rest of the day.

Later, after Father went to bed, Raphela snuck into my room with a small pile of black lace. I gasped.

"Father told you to get rid of that!" I cried, but Raphela covered my mouth.

"I know," she whispered. "So keep it in here so Father doesn't know I still have it, okay?"

Reluctantly, I nodded. Raphela put her nightgown in my bottom drawer, hugged me goodnight, and crept back to her bedroom.

For the next four years my sister continued to wear the gown, keeping it hidden from our father by keeping it in _my _room. I now believe that Father knew that she still had it; why he let her keep it is anyone's guess.

I press the fabric against my face and inhale its scent. Oh… it smells like Raphela. Tears of a different kind come to my eyes.

I find my old schoolbag and throw my clothes into it, but when I open my top drawer, I find a rose. Its smell is very strong, leading me to believe it was genetically enhanced. I wrinkle my nose and realize that attached to the unnaturally beautiful flower is a note.

I peel it off and open it, and then I cry out in horror. Only eight words are printed on the note. Only eight:

PLAY BY THE RULES

OR JARVIS IS NEXT

"Wiress, what's wrong?" Beetee asks, coming into the room. I start hyperventilating.

Beetee reads the note. He swears under his breath and wraps me in his warm embrace. "Oh, Wiress," he murmurs. "I already told you that everything is going to be okay. He's all talk, baby; that's all he is."

He kisses the nape of my neck; his warm breath tickles my throat and sends a shiver from my neck all the way down to my toes.

Beetee steps back abruptly, swearing again. "I'm sorry, Wiress," he says, hitting his forehead repeatedly.

Seeing Beetee strike himself is frightening because of what I know about him now, so I grab his wrist to stop him. "It's okay," I say weakly, still haunted by the note. _Play by the rules or Jarvis is next_... _what _rules? What rules have I already broken? Why can't Snow just tell me what to do instead of letting me make the wrong choices and then punishing me for it? Or even worse, punishing Beetee for it?

Beetee slips his arms around my shaking form again, taking the note from my hand and crumpling it in his fist. "Let's go home, baby," he says softly.

I let Beetee take me back to his house which—by default—is my home. Ironic how I finally got what I wanted, but my father and Raphela had to pay such a horrible price. I shudder.

Once we're at Beetee's house he removes the gauze and those wooden spoons to look at my ankle. It's no longer as swollen and it hurts much less to walk on, but I still prefer leaning on Beetee for support. Something about his warm, hard form is very reassuring.

"You've had a long day, honey," he says. "I know it's late, but do you want any dinner?"

"I shake my head, unsure if I'll ever have an appetite again after the scene I just witnessed. "I just want to bathe and go to bed," I say quietly.

Beetee nods and shows me where the bathroom is. Then he leaves me alone to bathe.

I bathe as quickly as possible and dress myself in Raphela's nightgown. This is the first time I've ever worn it and I deliberately keep my eyes away from the mirror, walking shyly back to the bedroom.

Beetee does a double take when he sees me. He quickly regains his composure and in a low, gritty voice he asks, "Where did you get that?"

I keep my eyes glued to the floor. Even the back of my neck feels hot. "This was my sister's," I whisper.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingering the strings on the worn skirt of the dress. Abruptly Beetee asks, "Do you want me to sleep in the other room, Wiress?"

I look up, alarmed. "No!" I say, terrified of the prospect.

Beetee sighs almost irritably; I shift uncomfortably.

"Are you angry at me?" I ask timidly.

Beetee shakes his head, looking a little surprised. "No, of course not," he says, sitting down next to me. He puts his arm around my shoulders but stiffens when I lean into him. I pull back to look at his face.

"You seem upset," I say softly.

"I'm fine," Beetee insists, but I'm not convinced. It hits me suddenly and tears fill my eyes.

"It's me, isn't it?" I whisper. "It's the dress." I start to sob. "I'm so sorry! Oh, Beetee, I'm so stupid!"

"No, you aren't; it's not that," Beetee denies weakly.

"Y-yes it is! I w-won't let you t-touch me—"

"Baby, you have a perfectly good reason for that—"

"And then I show up wearing something like _this_—"

"Wiress, I know why you're wearing that—it was your sister's, and you're wearing it for sentimental reasons. I shouldn't have asked—"

"I'm a tease! That's all I am—"

"No, you aren't—"

I interrupt him with my violent sobs, and Beetee his best to calm me down by massaging my back and shoulders. "Wiress, I'm going to tell you something. I'm not like Brozen, sweetheart. I'm not. You're very young and very beautiful but I'm not going to touch you until I have your permission."

"You have my permission," I whisper after a few moments of silence, bowing my head in shame and letting my hair hide my face. "After everything I've done to you, I owe you at least… well, I owe you _me_. Just… just use me whenever you need to, Beetee."

Beetee surprises me by grabbing my shoulders and shaking me so hard my eyes roll. "Wiress MacDanielle, you get one thing straight in that pretty little head of yours," he says fiercely. "You are _not _an object. I never _ever _want to hear you offer _anything _like that ever again. I don't give a damn what Brozen made you think—_you are not an object_. You're a very special young woman who doesn't deserve half of the shit she's gone through. You don't owe me _anything_—do you hear me? I love you for _who you are_, not for any kind of physical gratification."

"I'm not an object," I repeat shakily, still crying.

"Precisely," says Beetee, simmering down.

I calm down as well, my sobs ebbing away. Beetee gently presses his warm lips to my forehead. "Do you feel any better?" he asks softly, leaving to get me something to dry my face.

I nod slightly, blowing my nose loudly into the tissue he gives me.

"Sleep, love," he says after I've completed relaxed, but I shake my head fearfully.

"I can't," I whisper.

"Why not?" asks Beetee in that same gentle voice.

I need only say one word. "Nightmares."

Beetee holds me closer, letting out a soft groan of sympathy. That's one reason I'm glad Beetee went through the Games as well—he understands me that much more. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"Talk to me," I murmur.

"About what?" he asks softly, twirling a piece of my hair idly around his index finger.

I wrap my arms around his waist. "Tell me more about yourself."

Beetee stiffens again ever so slightly. "Why do you want to hear more about me?" he asks, avoiding my request.

"Beetee… I know exactly two details about you. You were in the Games—which everyone knows, so that doesn't really count—and you tried to kill yourself four times in a span of eight years." He flinches. "I love you and I trust you with my life… but I know almost nothing about you."

Beetee sighs in defeat, realizing I have a valid point. "There isn't much to say," he says slowly, still playing with my hair.

"What was your life like before the Games?" I prompt.

To my slight surprise Beetee lets out a bitter laugh. "It was downright horrible," he says.

"How so?"

He sighs again. "Should I start at the beginning?" he asks.

I nod, cuddling closer against him.

Beetee lets out a third sigh and begins his story.

"My mother's name was Thalia," he says. "She came here from District Ten when she was nineteen, and then she met my stepfather." His eyes darken. "Wade."

"Wait—your _step_father?"

He nods.

"Thalia was already pregnant with you?"

"Yes."

"What about your biological father?" I inquire.

"I don't know him," Beetee says bitterly. "My dear _mother_"—he says the word like it's poison in his mouth—"only told me the day I left home, after the Games. She wouldn't tell me anything else. She wouldn't even give me his _name_, for Panem's sake."

"Why did you leave home?" I ask timidly.

Beetee smiles humorlessly. "Because my stepfather couldn't stand me, that's why," he says. "My mother couldn't tolerate my various idiosyncrasies either. No, they preferred my sister—well, half-sister," he corrects.

"What's your sis— er, half-sister's name?" I ask.

"Mila," says Beetee. "She's maybe fifteen, sixteen—I honestly can't recall when she turns sixteen, if she hasn't already."

"Mila is Wade's daughter, am I correct?"

"That's probably why he favored her, now that I think about it. Though why my mother fell alongside him is anyone's guess." He closes his eyes so I can't read them.

"Have you spoken with Wade, Thalia, or Mila since…?"

"Not since I left home," Beetee says shortly. "I use the term _estranged_ to describe the relationship between me, Wade, and Mila."

"What about Thalia?"

"My mother died when I was nineteen. My stepfather sent me a letter telling me she was dead—he wouldn't say how, he just said she was dead. I didn't bother to ask why; he either wouldn't respond or he'd lie through his teeth. But it didn't matter; I didn't really care."

A chill runs through my body. "What about Mila?" I ask.

"Mila? What about her?"

"You haven't spoken to her in eight years," I say.

"Your point?"

"She might have changed," I say quietly. "I mean… you can't really justify blaming her for… for your parents favoring her. She didn't _ask _for it; it just happened."

Beetee tightens his grip on my hair reflexively; I wince and he immediately lets go with a hasty apology. "You didn't hear what she said to me after I was reaped. You didn't hear what she said after I left."

"Beetee, she was only a child—"

"She said she hoped someone gutted me like a fish," says Beetee in a hard voice. "She said she wished I had never been born. After I told her I was leaving she told me to go to hell."

"But she had been corrupted by Wade and Thalia; it wasn't entirely her fault—"

"I'm done talking about Mila, okay? I'm done," says Beetee crossly.

He falls into a moody silence. I change the subject.

"Who were you in love with, Beetee?" I ask.

His eyes widen. "What do you mean?" he asks, alarmed.

"You said… you said you lost someone you loved once," I say softly. "When we tried to…"

"Escape," Beetee finishes in the same soft tone. "Yes, I remember, and yes, you're right. I was in love once—and it ended in disaster."

"Was this before you were in the Games?" I ask.

Beetee takes his time before answering. "Yes," he says finally.

"Oh… is that what ruined the relationship? You being in the Games?" I ask quietly.

"You could say that," says Beetee, choosing his words too carefully for my liking.

"She didn't want you back after you won?" I ask gently.

"No," Beetee whispers. "We couldn't be together after the Games."

"What happened to her?" I ask softly. "You said you couldn't save her from something…"

"I _didn't _save her, but I could've," he corrects brokenly.

"What didn't you save her from?"

Once again, Beetee spends a few minutes deciding on his answer. "I didn't save her… from herself," he finally murmurs with tears in his eyes.

I have more questions but the subject seems too painful for him to talk about, so I drop it and lean against him; he wraps his arms around me and another question forms in my mind. "What about Violette?" I ask quietly.

"What about her?" he says, tracing the contours of my spine.

"Was there ever anything… between you and Violette?" I ask shyly.

"What?! No, of course not!" Beetee denies vehemently. "No, no, of course not," he repeats in a calmer voice. "What makes you think that?"

"I just wondered why you two didn't get along," I answer.

Beetee sighs. "Violette… she really let me down during my Games. She's still trying to make up for it, I think. She made it her job to 'look after me' after the Games, but I didn't need—or _want_—her help. She visited my house every single day to check up on me for the first four years afterward. She stopped shortly after my twenty-first birthday because…"

"Because what?" I press when he trails off.

He sighs again. "Wiress, what you have to realize is that Violette and I meant for nothing of the sort to happen," he insists. "We really didn't. We just had a little too much to drink…"

"Oh, Beetee," I whisper, realizing the outcome. "You guys didn't…"

"We did," Beetee confirms darkly. "Somehow we ended up in my bed. I swear we didn't mean for it to happen, Wiress; if you don't believe anything else I've told you, believe that I've never had—or never will have—any romantic feelings for Violette Galloway."

I nod, believing him. I have to believe him—who else can I believe?

"Anyway," he continues almost tiredly, "Violette and I haven't really spoken since them, um…" He searches for the right word. "Repercussions," he ultimately decides.

"'Repercussions'?" I repeat fearfully. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing like you're thinking," he reassures me. "I didn't get her pregnant if that's what you're asking, and I didn't give her any kind of disease—nor she to me. No, we fought about whose fault, um, _it _was. Violette was angry at me because… she hadn't wanted us to… well, you know," he finishes lamely. "She thinks I used her because she was drunk. But I had drank more liquor than she did—and I don't handle alcohol very well."

Violette already told me this, but I decide now probably isn't a good time to bring it up. Instead I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in his throat and inhaling his scent. "I promise to give you the love no one else did," I whisper tenderly.

"That's all I ask of you, sweetheart," he murmurs into my hair. "That's all I ask."

We lay entwined like this for a few more minutes. Then Beetee sighs.

"It's late," he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. "You need to sleep."

I nod and reluctantly get under the blankets. Beetee puts his glasses on his nightstand and does the same, taking me in his arms.

"I love you, Beetee," I whisper against his chest. "I really do."

"I love you too, Wiress," Beetee replies softly. "More than anything."

Only now do I know how true those words are.

* * *

I sleep late again the next morning. When I wake up, I'm alone. I peer at the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty.

I get out of bed and get dressed; then I go to the kitchen, where I'm greeted by a strange sight.

Beetee and Violette sit at the kitchen table, pouring over a piece of paper and looking grave. My heart speeds up with fear.

"Beetee," I say as loudly as I can.

He looks up and immediately turns what appears to be a letter over, coming over to me and kissing my cheek in greeting. He seems a little worried, even more so when examining my stress.

"What's wrong?" I ask in a frightened whisper, drifting toward the table.

Surprisingly, Beetee looks at Violette, as if to ask if he should answer.

"She'll find out sooner or later, Jarvis," she says gruffly.

"What happened?" I ask again, terrified. Beetee still doesn't answer. I rush to the table and snatch the paper from Violette, who relinquishes it without a fight. I take a few quick steps out of Beetee's reach to keep him from taking the letter from me.

I gasp when I read the heading:

THE CAPITOL v. BEETEE JANUS JARVIS II

I search the letter desperately, looking for words I recognize in the Capitol's legal jargon. I find my name soon enough, and it's coupled with that hateful, discriminatory phrase: statutory rape.

"Oh, no," I whisper.

**In case you're curious, Beetee was named for his maternal grandfather, who's been dead since his mother was thirteen—there are **_**not **_**two Beetees wandering around. Despite how much we love him, one Beetee is more than enough. Don't forget to leave a review!**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	7. Chapter VII

The paper flutters to the ground like a leaf falling off a tree at the end of autumn. I hyperventilate, trembling, tears stinging my eyes.

I knew it. I knew this would happen.

When Beetee comes up behind me I collapse into his arms, sobbing. This is exactly why I left him; I knew something like _this _would happen. I just thought I'd get a little more time with him.

I sink to my knees, still sobbing uncontrollably. Beetee kneels in front of me, brushing my hair away from my face. "Baby, it's okay," he whispers, but I don't buy it for a minute.

"It's happening," I choke. "It's happening—

"Wiress, nothing bad is going to happen," Beetee insists. "They only want me to go to the Capitol for a hearing. A _hearing_, Wiress, that's all it is—

"Can't you see they're lying?" I whisper through my tears. "They're gonna torture you again, and then they'll kill you—

"Honey, that isn't going to happen," he says again. "It _isn't_, Wiress, I swear it isn't."

I keep crying. Beetee cradles me in his arms, murmuring, "Baby, the letter says that I'm to go to the Capitol tomorrow for a disciplinary hearing to determine if they'll act on the charges against me."

I rasp in and out, in and out.

"They're going to exonerate me, honey," he continues. "If they wanted to arrest me, they wouldn't go through the trouble of having a hearing."

"They want to get your hopes up, and mine too," I whisper.

Beetee kisses my eyes, my nose, my lips. "Baby, it's going to be okay. I promise. I'll come back in a week or so and we'll have each other for the rest of our days."

I try to be comforted by his words. "When are we leaving?" I ask softly.

Beetee sighs. "Sweetheart… that's what Violette and I were talking about… we think it'd be best if she went with me and you stayed here."

My stomach drops through the floor. "But… but… Beetee, you can't leave me!" I cry, feeling hurt, defenseless, betrayed.

Beetee holds me closer. "I have to. I'm so sorry. But I _will _come back, he adds determinedly.

He helps me to my feet and I bury my face in his neck, still unable to breathe. Violette watches me piteously.

"Can you give us a minute?" Beetee snaps at her. She ignores him and he sighs again in exasperation, taking my hand and bringing me to his bedroom.

He pulls me close and I cry some more. He's leaving me. No, no, no! Beetee can't leave me. He can't, he can't, he can't!

"I'm not leaving permanently, he says again.

"Beetee, I c-can't live without y-you," I say, my sobs breaking up my speech. "I'll g-go insane if I h-haven't already…"

"You aren't crazy," Beetee says. "You aren't. But beside that, I'll be back in a week. I promise. I _swear_. Wiress, love, if I knew I might not come back I'd take you with me in a heartbeat."

"Why c-can't I go?" I ask tearfully.

"You and Violette have already fabricated a truthful-sounding lie to explain our… relationship," Beetee says gently. "For your safety and mine we have to let everyone assume we no longer associate with each other."

I cry harder.

"Please don't cry, Wiress," he murmurs. "I hate making you cry."

We sit on the bed and he rocks me in his arms, trying to calm me down. A week without Beetee… it might as well be ten years. I'll lose my mind without Beetee. It was different when I left him… he could live without me. Maybe not healthily, but he could live. But now he's all I have… and I need him like I need air. Without him I'll suffocate; I'll go completely insane.

I realize there's no real point in crying, so I do my best to control my sobs and soon they fade away. Beetee kisses the remaining tears from my eyes and says, "It's going to be alright, love. I promise."

I sigh sadly. "What if… it isn't?"

Beetee puts a finger over my lips. "Shh," he whispers. "It _is _going to be okay."

"How do you know?" I ask softly.

"Because I would rather die than live without you," he murmurs. "I'm so selfish I'd take you with me if there was the slightest chance I might not return."

"You're all I have left," I say quietly. "I'm so scared…"

"Of losing you again," he whispers in unison with me. "I'm not going to lie to you and say I'm not afraid; of course I am. I'm going back to the place that took everything I had and tore it to pieces—not once, but twice. But I have a reason to come back—you. So of course I'll return; I don't have a choice. I've lived my whole life alone, Wiress. I can't live without you either, nor will I."

"But do you really have to go?" I ask with a soft sigh.

Beetee nods sadly. "But I _will _come back," he repeats to make sure I didn't miss the point of his words.

I hold him close, my lips brushing the dip where his neck meets his shoulder. He shivers slightly even as I put my arms around him.

"If there's anything I can do to make this up to you," he murmurs, "now's the time to say it."

"You don't owe me," I say softly. "If anything, _I _owe _you_—"

"No, you don't," he says firmly, but he holds me tighter. Violette knocks on the door.

"Are you two alright?" she asks.

"We're fine," Beetee replies. He turns to me. "_Are _you okay?" he asks softly.

I nod. I kiss him between his eyes; the bridge of his glasses feels cold under my lips, but I can still feel his warm skin. Beetee takes my face in his hands and eases my lips to his mouth.

He hesitates, torn between wanting me and not wanting to force me to do anything I don't want to do. I pull him closer, ridding him of his indecision. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his lap; I feel that boundary of mine moving farther away, allowing me to enjoy our kiss more than I have in a long time, especially as it becomes warmer and deeper. A shiver runs up my spine—a shiver of desire, not of fear, not like it was with… no, God, no. I can't think about _him _now… that wouldn't be fair if I wasn't allowed to have Beetee now, after everything else…

The door suddenly bangs open. Beetee comes to his senses and breaks off our heated kiss with a gasp, and he tries to push me away, but I cling to him.

Violette narrows her eyes hatefully at Beetee. "Believe it or not, I actually thought you were better than this," she says coldly.

"No, Violette, it was my fault," I try to tell her, but she ignores me.

"You _saw _what she went through!" she says indignantly. "Is this what you do to her as soon as you're alone? God, I actually thought you'd changed—

"What Wiress and I do in private is none of your damned business!" Beetee fires back. "It has nothing to do with you!"

He stands up, setting me on my feet; I wrap my arms around his waist, terrified.

"If it concerns her, it does!" Violette counters heatedly. "Unlike you, I'm actually looking out for her!"

"You're looking out for Wiress about as well as you looked out for Lizah!" Beetee yells.

My eyes widen with shock. I try to place Lizah—oh, yes. She was Beetee's district partner. The one that was crushed to death by a pillar…

"I already told you, I did the best I could with her!" Violette shouts, pulling me out of my contemplation.

"You let her down, Violette! And you let Wiress down too! You promised you'd help her when I told you I loved her and you hardly did anything!"

"I told you to stay away from her! I didn't want to see you get hurt again! Not after—"

"Shut up!" Beetee hollers, cutting her off. "I don't need you to babysit me, Violette! Quit acting like you know who I am—you don't know _anything_!"

I sink to my knees and the room starts spinning sickeningly as I listen to Violette and Beetee's shouting match. I feel like I'm on a battlefield wanting both sides to win… I start trembling, putting my hands over my ears.

"Wiress?" Beetee asks concernedly, breaking away from his argument with Violette and noticing me. He kneels beside me and takes me in his arms. "Oh, Wiress," he murmurs.

Violette goes to her knees as well and puts a hand on my forehead. "Wiress, what's wrong?"

_I don't know_, I think, but I can't speak. I can't stop shaking either. I remember the panic attack I had shortly after I woke up from my coma; the sensation is very similar.

"Just go," Beetee snaps at Violette.

Surprisingly, she obeys him without question and leaves. I guess they can't argue when though know I'm in pain.

Beetee picks me up and brings me to the bathroom. I gasp with terror when he starts undressing me.

"Wiress, I just want to get you in the bathtub," he reassures me. "It'll calm you down. That's all I'm doing, I swear."

I couldn't fight him off even if I wanted to. I let him undress me and put me in the bathtub. The hot water soothes my tense muscles almost immediately.

Beetee sits on the edge of the bathtub and gently massages shampoo into my hair. I calm down slowly, lulled into relaxation by Beetee's touch. After a few minutes, I tilt my head back and peer at him, my unexplained anxiety gone. "Why a bath?" I ask softly, curiously, hugging my knees to my chest.

"It calms me down," he admits with a faint smile, caressing my throat and shoulders with his long fingers. "We're so much alike; I figured it'd help you too. And I was right, I presume?"

"Of course you were," I say, smiling slightly. "When aren't you?"

He sighs, ruining the lighthearted moment. "I'm sorry about… you know," he says, reddening and averting his eyes from mine.

I don't know how to tell Beetee that I liked our kiss—especially since I can hardly explain it myself—so I keep my mouth shut.

After a few minutes of awkward silence Beetee rises. "I'll let you do the rest," he says, touching my cheek.

I call his name when he opens the door to leave. He turns around with a look of askance.

"I love you," I say softly, leaning my head back again and smiling at him.

He smiles back. "As I love you," he says. He turns and leaves.

For some reason I choose to take my time bathing—as per usual, Beetee was right; the affects of the bath are quite calming. I even shave my legs with one of Beetee's razors—I can't remember the last time I did that. I run my hands up and down my legs when I'm done, fascinated with how the texture changed, and then I drain the bathtub, standing up and drying off. I get dressed and dry my hair, combing out the snarls until it feels like silk and shines subtly.

I walk into the living room and right into Beetee's arms. His nose brushes my throat and I can't help but giggle when I feel him inhale my scent.

"You smell nice," he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. He pulls away slightly and raises an eyebrow at my happy expression, as if to ask how I've changed moods so quickly. I sigh.

"Can we pretend that you aren't leaving me?" I ask softly. "Just for today? I want one last happy day with you."

He groans quietly. "Baby, I'm coming back. I promise I'm coming back."

I hold him closer. "Still… just pretend that you've already come back, and that the worst is behind us, and now we can be together."

He sighs. "What do you want to do?"

"Something… something romantic," I say quietly, blushing a deep red.

I cringe inwardly almost immediately, realizing that, giving the kissing earlier, sex might be what comes to Beetee's mind when I say the word _romantic_—and I can't do that now, if ever. But to my surprise he smiles warmly, taking my hands in both of his. "I know just the place," he tells me. "Go put on something pretty and then we'll go."

* * *

"Beetee, this isn't what I meant!" I whisper frantically.

We're in the very outskirts of the district, standing by the fence that prevents us from entering the field that separates from District Four. No one is allowed in there, and to emphasize this, the fence is rigged with over forty thousand volts of electricity. You hit it, you die; no exceptions. It's also topped with barbed wire, but this is completely unnecessary—no one could climb that fence and survive, and the wire just rubs it in our faces of something else that we aren't allowed to do.

At the moment Beetee is kneeling in front of the gate—which is uncharged for Peacekeeper entry—and messing with the keypad that keeps it locked. He rolls his eyes at my words. "You said something romantic," he replies absently, muttering to himself while pressing numbers into the keypad.

"But this is illegal! We'll get executed for this!" I hiss.

"That's if we get caught," Beetee corrects. "And we won't be. I've never been."

"You've done this _before_?" I shriek in a strained whisper.

"Plenty of times," he tells me in an almost bored voice. After a few more minutes the gate suddenly opens and Beetee stands up with a triumphant grin on his face.

"After you, my lady," he says, opening the gate wider and gesturing inside.

I slowly walk through this gate for the first time in my life. Beetee carefully closes it behind us.

"How?" I ask simply.

Beetee half-smiles. "Most people try to get through by going over the fence," he says, "but for obvious reasons they fail miserably—they either get fried or shredded by the barbed wire, or both. One day I thought, 'What if I just go through the gate like the Peacekeepers do?' So after several tries I cracked the code that unlocks the gate. There aren't any Peacekeepers on guard because they don't expect anyone from the district to outsmart them." He says this last part bitterly, but then he smiles and holds out his hand.

"Have I ever told you that you were insane?" I ask.

Beetee shakes his head, still grinning.

"Then I'll say it now: Beetee Jarvis, you are completely insane!"

But I take his hand anyway and he leads me through the field. It doesn't matter if he's crazy or not; he's Beetee, and that's all that matters to me.

I kneel and touch the soft grass, so unlike the sandy, ashy, pebbly ground of District Three. "This is amazing," I whisper in delight.

Beetee smiles again. "I knew you'd like it."

I rise and wrap my arm around his; we walk through the field at a leisurely pace, chatting idly.

"Does Violette know you come here?" I ask.

"No," says Beetee. "Do you honestly think Violette would come here? And bring you as well?" He chuckles once. "Yeah, right."

I sigh almost sadly. "Don't you wish life could be like this all the time?" I ask.

Beetee puts his finger over my lips again. He kneels and picks up a yellow wildflower out of a cluster of many in all colors. "Don't be so pessimistic, love," he says softly, tucking the flower in my hair. "Don't let them rob you of your assets—your soft, gentle, sweet ways. Promise me you'll always be what I need—that sweet little canary in the summer."

"I promise," I whisper, smiling. Tears of a completely new kind sting my eyes—not ones borne of pain, but of joy.

Beetee tenderly presses his lips to each of my eyelids. I smile again and wriggle out of his embrace, running through the field; my ankle still aches dully, but I ignore it, spinning and laughing blissfully. Never have I felt so free, so _alive_. I lay on the grassy ground, inhaling its fragrance—it smells so sweet. Beetee lays on his back next to me and I roll onto my side, facing him. I trace a heart on his chest with my index finger. "You," I tell him, "are amazing."

Beetee grins again. "I thought I was insane."

"That too."

He leans his head back, closing his eyes. "Do you realize how unsanitary this is, lying on the ground? Do you realize how many parasites could be crawling on us at this very moment?"

I let out a small, disparaging noise. "Can you pretend that you're not smart for at least ten seconds?" I ask, unable to repress my smile.

Beetee pretends to be offended, opening his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I cannot," he says. "I happen to enjoy being smart."

"Then at least pretend you aren't smarter than me."

He narrows his eyes. "I'm not that much smarter than you," he says. Then he winks. "But maybe I am just a little bit."

"How long can we stay here?" I ask, laying my head on his chest.

"We're fine on time," Beetee replies. "We can stay all day if you want to."

"Can we stay to watch the sunset?" I ask.

Beetee blanches. "Oh," I say softly, remembering his fear of the dark.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, closing his eyes again.

"It's okay," I reassure him.

"I used to come out here and watch the sunsets all the time," he says quietly. "I used the Peacekeepers' underestimation of everyone—including me—to my advantage. No Peacekeepers guard that fence because they knew no one could get over it and survive—they never thought anyone would think to hack the security system."

"You can't watch the sunsets anymore," I say sadly. "Because of—"

"Snow," Beetee interrupts firmly.

I sigh. There's no point in contradicting him.

I push these thoughts out of my head and concentrate on spending the rest of the afternoon with Beetee—two lovers in the meadow.

We actually manage to forget what's coming in the morning—Beetee's departure. We walk through the field holding hands and talking. I don't push Beetee into opening up about himself, but soon he just does. He tells me that, for as long as he can remember, he's been fascinated by mechanics and electricity. He says that he's been building things like light switches and motors from whatever he could salvage since he was fifteen. And he tells me that his dream is to go to the moon.

"What?" I ask in some surprise.

Beetee's face is bright red as he explains, "Centuries ago, Panem was known as North America. Well, North America had a space program—the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, or NASA—that explored the moon and outer space. When I was feeling really low—I was maybe thirteen or fourteen—I thought about living somewhere where no one treated him like crap. So I decided it'd be cool to live on the moon."

I can't help but giggle. "You're laughing at me," says Beetee.

I shake my head, biting my lip to keep from laughing anymore. Beetee rolls his lovely eyes. "You tell me you don't have a dream from your childhood that's a little ridiculous," he says.

I sigh. "I do," I admit. "When I was a little girl… I wanted to be a dancer. A ballet dancer."

I haven't talked or even thought about this in years. But if anyone should know, it's Beetee, who raises an eyebrow.

"A ballet dancer?" he asks.

I nod. "My sister bought that nightgown on Parcel Day after your Games. I found a pair of _pointe _shoes—ballet shoes—and instantly I was in love. There's a back room in the library at school full of books we aren't supposed to read without formal permission, and this permission is usually denied."

"Oh, yes," says Beetee. "I spent most of free time in there—not that anyone knew that, of course."

"Well, Raphela helped me find some books on ballet and helped me practice. _Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, The Nutcracker, Giselle_… I learned all of those parts, and a few more, but I had to dance without music, as we didn't have and couldn't afford records or a record player. I actually got pretty good at it—dancing—and when I was thirteen… I decided that I would become a ballerina."

Beetee smiles; I narrow my eyes. "Don't make fun," I say, feeling hurt.

"I'm not," he says. "I'm just imagining you dancing—"

"And you think the idea of me dancing is laughable," I finish bitterly.

Beetee stops and takes my hands in his. "That isn't what I meant," he says. "I'm smiling because I'm imagining my lovely Wiress dancing in a meadow wearing a long white dress with flowers in her hair." He pulls me closer. "She'd dance and dance until her clumsy lover could move just as gracefully."

I take in his sweet words, feeling silly upon realizing I overreacted. "I'm sorry," I say quietly.

Beetee kisses my lips just briefly before pulling away. I feel strange afterward—almost hungry for more. The sensation is alarming and a little terrifying, so I don't act on the impulse.

"I really would love to see you dance sometime," Beetee continues.

I smile sadly. "I haven't danced in years," I tell him.

"Why not?"

I sigh. "When I told my father what I wanted to do with my life… which was dance… he took me aside and told me gently that my dream was nothing more than that—a dream with no real substance."

"Oh, Wiress…"

"I took my _pointes _to school with me the next day and threw them in the garbage."

"Sweetheart, you shouldn't have done that."

"I was so _angry_," I continue. "It wasn't fair… that I had talent… but I had to be like everyone else, a measly factory worker, because I wasn't from the Capitol."

"That's horrible," Beetee sympathizes.

I nod sadly. "I think I know why I was so taken with the ballet," I say slowly. "All of the dances are rooted in romance… the leads always get their happy endings, and that's what I wanted… what I still want."

"Oh, baby," Beetee whispers, pulling me close. "Sweet, sweet Wiress, life has done you so wrong."

I don't say a word; I let him hold me, trying not to cry and ruin the happiness of before.

After a few minutes, Beetee's lips brush my ear. "Dance," he murmurs.

"What?"

Beetee takes about twenty steps away from me. "You heard me," he says. "I want to see you dance."

"Beetee, I haven't danced in years—"

"So now is as good a time as any to start dancing again," he says simply, stepping back when I step toward him.

"But Beetee—"

"Didn't you say you love ballet?"

"I did when I was thirteen, but—"

"So dance for me. Show me what you can do."

"Beetee, I can't!" I cry. "I stopped dancing for a reason!"

"And what reason is that?" he asks calmly.

"It hurts," I whisper. "It hurts to think about dancing… about the happy days…"

"Are you unhappy now, Wiress?" Beetee asks softly.

I'm stumped. How can I be happy when my family is dead? It insults their memory… but I _was _happy a little while ago… being with Beetee made me happy, and it still does.

Beetee sighs and comes over to me, burying his face in my hair. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I shouldn't push you so much. I know you can't be happy—not when so much has been taken away from you."

I step out of his embrace and slowly walk about thirty feet away. I kick off my shoes. "Be prepared to catch me," I say quietly to Beetee.

Beetee's eyes widen. He becomes very still as I stand on my toes _en pointe _and fulfill his request: for the first time in over four years, I dance.

The world turns into a multicolored blur as I spin and spin, my skirt flaring out all around me like a floral printed tornado. I can hear the lovely music I had to create in my head to keep myself from performing in silence as I child as I move with the late summer breezes like one of the wildflowers that I throw at my bewildered lover. I spin and spin, twirling toward Beetee. I hold my right leg above my head and throw myself into his outstretched arms; he catches me as I asked him to, but I quickly fling myself out of his arms and continue spinning, faster and faster, until I finally lose my superb balance. I collapse onto the ground with a startled cry.

"Wiress!" Beetee gasps, hurrying to my side. He kneels and helps me up. "Are you hurt?"

No, I'm not hurt, but tears come to my eyes anyway. "I failed," I whisper.

"No, honey, that was wonderful," says Beetee, smiling.

"But I fell," I protest weakly.

"It doesn't matter, darling. You were amazing," he tells me.

I wipe my tears away impatiently. "It's getting late anyway. Can we just go home?" I ask, my voice strained.

Beetee's smile fades. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

"I just want to go home," I whisper.

Beetee slips his arms around me and hugs me against him. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Everything I do seems to end in failure," I confess.

"Not everything," Beetee contradicts quietly. "_We _didn't end in failure."

"We almost did," I whisper.

"What happened, happened," he sighs after a short pause. "But we have each other now, don't we?"

"But the hearing—"

He covers my mouth with his hand. "It's just you and me right now," he says, but blanches upon seeing the sun about to set.

"We have to go," I say quietly, voicing his thought.

Beetee nods guiltily. "I am so sorry, Wiress," he says, taking my hand. We hurry back to the gate in silence, and we make it back home just before dark. We eat a light dinner and then we go to bed.

"I love you," I tell Beetee as he holds me close.

"I love you too, Wiress."

I dream of Beetee and me dancing in the meadow, which I take to be a good omen.

* * *

The clock on Beetee's nightstand reads five o'clock when he stirs and gets out of bed, kissing my cheek and murmuring "I love you" in my ear.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending I'm still asleep. I hear Beetee take a shower and then get dressed, dragging a suitcase into the living room. Tears burn my eyes and drip onto the pillowcase.

After an hour and a half I can feign sleep no longer. I don't even bother getting dressed; I just walk into the living room on bare feet that don't make a sound.

Beetee paces up and down the living room, wearing a dark brown suit a few shades lighter than his eyes. He keeps checking his watch and glancing at the door, and then he sees me.

"Wiress," he says.

I go over to him but I don't speak. I start nitpicking, straightening his shirt collar, fixing his tie, combing his thick hair with my fingers. It touches his shirt collar and curls slightly. I should cut it sometime, if he'll let me.

"You can cut it when I get back, if you'd like," murmurs Beetee.

"I didn't realize I was speaking aloud," I say, a little surprised.

"You weren't," Beetee says. "But you were touching my hair and looking thoughtful, so I put two and two together."

"You look very nice," I tell him, realizing I forgot to say so. "Very handsome."

"If you say so," says Beetee, unconvinced. "This is the only suit I own, and I kind of hate it."

I smile a little, but then the tears come. "Oh, sweetheart… come here," Beetee whispers.

I walk into his embrace, trying not to cry and ruin his jacket. He rubs my back soothingly. "It's okay, Wiress," he says softly. "I'll be home before you know it."

"I'll miss you," I whisper. "So much."

"I'll miss you too, Wiress," Beetee murmurs against my ear. "But I'll come back."

"Promise?" I ask in a constricted voice.

"Absolutely," says Beetee.

He lifts my chin to look into my eyes. I close them and kiss him on the lips.

Beetee's hands find my waist, but this time, he's completely in control of himself. I'm ambivalent about this—grateful and disappointed, and confused about the latter. My arms find their way around his neck and we sway gently like the wildflowers in the meadow. Beetee unconsciously pulls me closer, holding me tight, and I lean into him, my heart fluttering like a bird's.

Someone clears their throat. Beetee holds me tighter, still kissing me with that edge of restraint, as if he's afraid I'll rebuff if our kiss becomes too passionate.

Our guest clears her throat again. "Jarvis," says Violette.

Beetee breaks off our kiss with great reluctance but doesn't let me go. I lay my head on his shoulder and he puts his lips in my hair, kissing the top of my head. He caresses my forehead with his smooth cheek that smells like shaving lotion. _Please don't go…_

Violette sighs sympathetically. "Beetee," she says softly, "she'll be here when we come back."

I realize that Beetee isn't loath to leave me just for my sake. He's afraid something will happen to me—not without reason. He ignores Violette completely, his fingertips tracing the length of my arm. He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each of my fingers, then holds it to his cheek, staring at me longingly, his dark eyes shining with unshed tears. And he doesn't say anything, not a single word.

Violette takes Beetee by the wrist and pulls him away from me. "No," he whispers fearfully, coming back to me, but Violette stands in between us.

"We have to go, Beetee," she says in that strangely gentle voice. Beetee throws me an agonized look.

"I'll be back, Wiress, love," he says desperately, picking up his suitcase as Violette ushers him out the door.

I run to the doorway and lean against the doorframe. "Beetee, I love you!" I call to him, trying not to panic.

He turns back. "I love you, Wiress. I'll see you soon."

He and Violette eventually disappear into the distance. I close the door, feeling numb.

It's only six-thirty in the morning, so I decide to go back to bed, but sleeping alone in Beetee's bed is agonizing. I toss and turn, longing for my lover's comforting embrace. I dream of Brozen, of the slaughterhouse I used to live in, of the deaths of Marcelle and of Dextra, the tribute I turned into shark fodder… I scream in my sleep, writhing, crying out for Beetee, for Raphela, for my parents—all unreachable. After two hours I decide that trying to sleep is pointless. I wash my face, get dressed, and go to the kitchen to make myself breakfast, though I'm not very hungry. I accidentally miscalculate and make too much, but I force myself to eat all of it, uncomfortably reminded that I shouldn't waste food when so many people are starving. As soon as I reach the bathroom, however, I throw it all back up. I cry out of guilt; it's not fair that I, the killer, get more to eat than the innocent people, and I can't even enjoy it. It isn't fair—it just isn't. But the Capitol knows that perfectly well.

When my tears fade away I go back to the kitchen and sit at the table, resting my head on my folded arms. I tear up again. I miss Beetee terribly. It's been less than three hours and I'm about ready to jump off a cliff. What will the rest of the week be like? _And will my Beetee even come home?_

I jump about ten feet when I hear a knock. I instinctively go to the knife drawer and pull out a blade about six inches long; I tuck the knife into the waistband of my skirt, un-tucking my blouse and letting my shirttail cover it. Then I cautiously answer the door.

To my immense relief it isn't an army of Peacekeepers. No, the woman at the door doesn't seem a threat—she's in her late twenties with long, dark hair that goes to her waist. Her eyes are obsidian and shine with unshed tears. And—the most startling thing—she closely resembles Violette with only a few minute exceptions.

After we size each other up, she finally speaks—and I'm stunned by her words. "By God, you look just like your mother," she whispers fondly.

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	8. Chapter VIII

**I'm sorry about leaving you all with **_**another **_**cliffhanger last time, but don't worry; this chapter doesn't have a cliffhanger and there won't be another for a while. I'm not sure how long, but I'm done with them for at least five chapters, but probably more. Yay! This chapter is a little short compared to other ones, but it's very… informative. ;) Remember to leave a review! **

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

"You knew my mother?" I gasp. I immediately let this woman into the house. If she knew my mother—the kindest, most gracious woman I've ever known—she can't possibly have any desire to cause me harm.

"I should probably introduce myself," the woman says before narrowing her eyes. "Unless you know who I am?"

"I do," I realize suddenly. Yes, I've seen this woman before—only in a photograph, but I've seen her. It was shortly before the Games—the day of the interviews with Caesar Flickerman, in fact.

"You're Eileen," I say.

Violette's twin sister nods, smiling wryly. "And you're Wiress," Eileen says. "Clea's daughter."

"How did you know my mother?" I ask, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.

"This isn't your house," she responds, surveying the living room. She didn't avoid my question; she ignored it completely.

"No, it isn't," I say slowly. "It's Beetee's. Beetee Jarvis's," I add.

"I know Beetee," Eileen says, sitting on the sofa. "Well, I know _of _him. I don't think anyone really knows Beetee."

"I know him," I say defensively, sitting in an armchair. "He's my… my…"

I falter. I don't really know what to call Beetee anymore. I've been using the word _lover_, but the term isn't accurate considering we haven't slept together since before the Games. The term _boyfriend _seems too frivolous and isn't appropriate to apply to a man of twenty-five. And we most certainly aren't married, so he can't be called my husband.

"He's my friend," I say finally, knowing the term doesn't do Beetee justice. "My very good friend."

Eileen raises her eyebrows in confusion—_mock _confusion, more like. "Now, what are you doing in the house of a man you claim to have no real relationship with? And if he's now _magically _you're friend, I assume the friendship is quite awkward to maintain, am I correct?"

I chastise myself fiercely. Damn, damn, damn! I forgot all about my façade. "I, um… I…"

"Was lying the entire time? I had a feeling that was it," Eileen says with a small smile. "So you and Beetee Jarvis _are _star-crossed lovers, right?"

"We are _not _lovers!" I deny. "We haven't slept together in over three weeks because I'm afraid he'll try to force himself on me like the boy from District One tried to during the Games!"

Oops. I didn't mean to say _that _much. I haven't even really told Beetee that much.

"That's unfortunate," says Eileen with an air of unconcern that gets under my skin. "I thought you knew him. Beetee, I mean."

"I do!"

"Does he love you, Wiress?"

"Yes!" I say fiercely, terrified of a world where he doesn't.

"Then why would he try to rape you?"

"I know he won't!"

"Then why are you afraid he will?"

"I don't know!" I cry. "Why don't you go into the Games, nearly get raped, and then come home and explain this whole damned thing to me! God, you're infuriating!"

"You don't really know this man, do you, Wiress?" Eileen asks conversationally, again pointedly ignoring my comment.

"Yes, I do! I _do _know him!"

"So you know _everything _there is to know about Beetee Jarvis? He's told you absolutely everything about himself?"

Again, I falter. "Well, maybe not _everything, _per se…"

Eileen's smile seems very much like a sneer to me. "Look, I'm done discussing Beetee. It's none of your business, to be frank," I say. "I want to know how you knew my mother. _Now_."

She sighs dramatically. "If you insist," she says. "I knew your mother because she was my cousin."

The room starts spinning. "You… your cousin… you're her cousin?" I ask weakly.

Eileen nods. "Clea's parents were killed in a factory accident when Clea was just a child—maybe two or three years old," she explains. "So she went to live with her father's younger brother and his wife, who was a healer."

"A healer?" I ask, confused.

"Yes. My mother treated the ill and injured of District Three, though her specialty was delivering children before she passed away a few years ago."

Eileen's mother would be my great-aunt. I never even knew her and she's dead.

"Mother taught Clea her trade at a young age for fear she'd never have children of her own," Eileen continues, "thus making Clea her only… heir, for lack of a better word."

"But your mother _did _have children… didn't she?"

"Yes. When her surrogate daughter was fifteen my mother had two twin girls."

"You and Violette."

She nods again. "Mother taught us what she knew as well, but my sister was… reluctant. You see, Violette believed she was meant for better things. But I'm off topic. Your mother lived with us for twenty-one years before she met and married a man called Runo MacDanielle—your father. She continued helping the three of us tend to the sick, injured, and pregnant people of District Three until she herself got pregnant."

"With Raphela," I interject.

To my surprise, Eileen shakes her head, looking grim.

"No?" I ask, shocked and confused.

"When Clea was six months pregnant with her first child," she says quietly, "she went into labor and delivered a baby boy. We did everything we could to try to save him, but there wasn't much we _could _do…"

"Oh, my God," I whisper. "That's… awful…"

I had no idea I ever had a brother. Eileen nods gravely at my words, wiping her eyes on her shirtsleeve.

"What… was his name? Did she name him?" I ask softly. He'd be buried with my father and sister… the older brother I never knew I had.

"Clea and Runo were going to name him Jedidiah," she replies, closing her eyes for a minute. She sighs and continues. "After Clea recovered she decided she wasn't cut out to be a healer after all. It was too painful for her. Mother and I let her go and continued our work without her. I missed her dearly, of course, but there wasn't much I could do—I was only eight. Eventually we learned that she did have two daughters—you and your sister, of course. As I got older I tried keeping in touch with Clea, as she did with me, but she was so busy with you two and I had so much on my plate as well—it was quite a difficult relationship to maintain. Clea actually began considering becoming a healer again because at this point Violette had walked out on our mother and me, but Clea never got that chance."

"She was murdered in town square that September," I say quietly, my eyes downcast. I know; I was there, forced to watch the death of my own mother. And she was only trying to protect me… I change the subject, disliking the memories of my mother's cruel execution. "When you say Violette walked out on you… what do you mean, Eileen?"

Another sigh. "I already explained that Violette wasn't happy being a healer. She was reaped for the Thirty-sixth Hunger Games ten years ago when we were eighteen. She… she certainly proved herself a master survivalist without a conscience. Vi let everyone assume she was no threat by hiding in a canyon she found. She came out at night and stole people's food, and when she knew everyone had forgotten about her, she snuck to the Cornucopia and found a machete." Eileen closes her eyes again. "The crown was hers the next day."

I wait patiently for Eileen to continue. "When Vi came home… we were overjoyed for many reasons, my mother and I," she tells me slowly. "Not only was she alive, she had her winnings, and we hoped she'd use them to help us buy more medical supplies. But Violette had other ideas. She told us flatly that she was done with healing for good. Mother begged her to reconsider, but Vi insisted on leaving. I confronted her. I told her that she was letting not only her family down but everyone in District Three down. She was _needed_. Violette said that we only wanted her because she was worth something now, and besides, she was obligated to be a healer, and that it was _her _life—she'd do as she pleased and there wasn't a dammed thing Mother or me could do about it. Then she simply walked out." She sighs again. "The last correspondence I had with her was when I wrote her telling her Clea was dead. She didn't respond."

I pause to take this in. I know more about my mentor now than I think I wanted to. Is she as misunderstood as I chose to believe? She hacked people to pieces, abandoned her family, slept with Beetee and blamed him for it… what kind of person _is _she?

"I have one more question," I say. "If my mother was your cousin… how are we related?"

Eileen smiles slightly. "You're my first cousin once removed," she says.

"So… Violette and I are also first cousins once removed? And she knew this?"

"Yes and yes."

"Why didn't she tell me?" I ask simply.

"I stopped trying to psychoanalyze my sister years ago," she responds neutrally. She rises. "I have to go."

"Can you come back tomorrow?" I ask, hoping for a _yes_.

"I'm afraid not," she says. "I shouldn't have come today, as a matter of fact."

My shoulders slump. Eileen perks up slightly.

"You're more than welcome at my place, though," she says. "I could you use your help if you're willing to give it."

"Would the patients mind? If that's even what they're called? I mean, would they mind since I'm a victor and all?"

"Probably not. Besides, we don't have to tell them exactly who you are; they'd recognize your_ name_, not your face."

"Okay. I'd love to help with whatever I can," I reply, glad about have a productive way to spend my time. It's almost rebellious—helping people. But there's suddenly nothing I want to do more.

Eileen tells me she'll get me tomorrow morning, bids me goodbye, and leaves. I put the knife away and eat a light dinner before going to my own house for the first time. It's built very similarly to Beetee's except without the personal touches that make it a home. I put my clothes away and drag the blanket from the bed to the couch; I take out another knife and lay it on the coffee table and jam a chair from the kitchen under the doorknob, as I saw Beetee do just the other day. Then I take off my shoes and curl up on the couch. This way, if someone tries to sneak in to kill me in my sleep, I'll hear them and I can cut them to save myself, then make my escape out the front door.

My conscience feels uneasy about this, but I close my eyes and let sleep take me over.

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	9. Chapter IX

**Happy Halloween, everyone! If you don't celebrate Halloween for any reason, then happy Wednesday! I'm sorry it took so long to post this chapter, but worry not, my friends; your patience has been well rewarded. Read on and you'll see what I mean. :)**

**Caution: there is a baby birth in this chapter. I don't think anyone who has read the Hunger Games trilogy should be squeamish about stuff like that, but you never really know, so I'm warning you ahead of time. **

**Don't forget to review! :)**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

Eileen comes to my house early the next morning to bring me to her home. I wear the button-down dress I found in the Capitol and Violette's hooded sweatshirt to appear as plain as possible—a fairly easy feat for someone as simple as me.

We're silent on the walk to Eileen's house. I'm not sure what I'm expecting. A miniature hospital, like a smaller edition of the one Beetee and I were detained in? Probably not—even if Violette had given Eileen and her mother some of her winnings—which she didn't—they couldn't have afforded anything like that. Maybe one of those tents with the red cross on them, like the ones the wounded were treated in during the war that occurred in the Dark Days? Eileen _did _say she treated people at her house, so it probably isn't that... dingy.

Soon we reach a house slightly bigger than most in District Three—excluding the houses in the Victors' Village, of course. Eileen lets me in and puts on a pair of latex gloves, tossing another pair to me. I'm suddenly unspeakably nervous—what if I inadvertently hurt someone? My hands start shaking.

"Why don't you go check on Astrid? She's just down the hall," Eileen tells me.

"Who's Astrid?"

"A pregnant woman who's staying here with her husband until she has her baby. She might go into labor at any minute, so I'm keeping her close by."

My eyes widen. "Am I qualified to take care of her?"

"Sure. If she goes into labor, just holler."

"How will I now if she's in labor?" I demand, hardly able to believe the task I've been assigned.

"Trust me, you'll know." She raises her voice. "Astrid? Astrid! Are you awake?"

There isn't a reply, so Eileen says, "Just go see her; she'll probably be awake."

She disappears to a different part of the house. I go down the hallway until I find a room with a light shining under the slightly ajar door. I open it, and what I find is quite a shock.

A young woman sits cross-legged on the bed with her back against the headboard. Her hair is thick and dark—like most women of District Three—and is pulled away from her face with a rubber band. A few strands cling to her temples and neck, but despite her apparent discomfort her coal-colored eyes glow with happiness as she gently caresses her large belly—the fact that this woman is pregnant is obvious, so she must be Astrid. But she looks no older than fifteen or sixteen!

The very young woman—one could even call her a girl—looks up when she hears my footsteps and beams. "Hi," she intones, giving me a friendly wave.

"_You're _Astrid?" I inquire in disbelief.

She laughs and nods. "The one and only." She moves over to make room for me on the bed, but I'm frozen in place.

"How old are you?" I blurt.

Astrid giggles again. "Twenty-one," she says. I gape at her and another tinkling laugh escapes her lips. "I know, I know; I don't look a day older than sixteen. My husband often says the same thing. It's our private joke; I was sixteen when I met him."

I slowly cross the room and sit next to the young mother-to-be, who smiles warmly. Then her coal eyes narrow.

"Have I seen you before?" she asks.

"No," I fabricate quickly, "but you've probably seen my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Yes," I lie. "My sister's name is Wiress; she was the victor of the most recent Hunger Games. My name is Raphela."

Astrid nods in understanding and puts her hand over mine. "I'm so sorry about what happened to her," she says sympathetically. "It must be so hard for her, what with the Games and what happened before, and after…" She shakes her head.

I swallow. "It's very hard… for her, I mean." I attempt to change the subject. "Where's your husband?"

"Duncan? Oh, Eileen sent him to get something from the market—I can't recall what," Astrid tells me. "He ought to be back soon; I can't wait for you to meet him. He's just the sweetest thing."

"How did you meet him?" I press.

"I started working at the factory when I was sixteen, and on my way to the restroom one day I bumped into him. We exchanged just a few words and… let's just say I started taking restroom breaks more often." She winks. "Poor Duncan didn't stand a chance. I wouldn't leave him alone; he was so lonely, and I knew he enjoyed my company even when he asked me to leave him alone. Soon we started seeing each other even on our days off. We went for long walks, we told each other secrets…" Astrid blushes when she realizes she's rambling and concludes, "I told Duncan I loved him when I was seventeen and that we had no choice but to marry. He felt the same way—though he tried to deny it at first—and we eloped when I was eighteen." She sighs and sobers. "My parents didn't approve. I moved in with Duncan but kept myself open to my family; I was willing to forgive them for not only misunderstanding but ridiculing my love for Duncan. Then a few months ago, Duncan and I discovered I was pregnant. We were overjoyed. I told my parents thinking they'd be happy for me…" Astrid sniffs. "They weren't. They told me they didn't want anything to do with me anymore. Then they threw me out of the house and screamed at me to never come back again."

"That's horrible," I sympathize, stroking her hand and looking into those coal-colored eyes of hers that sparkle with tears. "Why didn't your parents approve?"

A man appears in the doorway; his black hair is mussed and his dark eyes look tired. His cheeks and jaw are raspy with five o'clock shadow. Nevertheless, when he lays eyes on the woman on the bed, those tired eyes light up and glow and his face splits into a loving smile. Astrid lifts hers almost shyly and the emotion that crosses her face is astounding—pure admiration and devotion. She'd do anything for this man, and the feeling is clearly mutual. This is a couple who is very much in love, but I start in surprise when I see Astrid's husband. My question has been answered—her parents didn't approve of Duncan because he could pass as Astrid's father.

Duncan pulls a chair to Astrid's bedside and kisses her forehead. She beams again, blushing happily, and says, "Raphela, this is Duncan." Her smile gets wider. "My husband."

"Hi," I greet him, still shocked. "You're… you're Duncan?"

"I am," he says, shaking my hand. "And you are…?"

"I'm Raphela," I tell him. "Wiress MacDanielle's sister."

"Wiress? You mean the victor?" I nod and Duncan shakes his head. "That poor girl," he murmurs.

"Where is Wiress, anyway?" asks Astrid.

"She had to go to the Capitol for a hearing," I lie. "She and Beetee Jarvis."

Duncan shakes his head again. "I never thought I sympathize with that man, but damn, I just can't help it."

"Why do you feel sorry for him?" I ask curiously.

"I'm not blaming your sister at all, but I doubt he knew exactly what he was getting into with her and now he's in a whole mess of legal trouble. I mean, Wiress seems so young and fragile—and lonely, so lonely. Just to look at her is to pity her. Jarvis seemed pretty lonely too—it's no wonder they found solace in each other.

"Solace? What do you mean?" I ask, trying not to panic. "We—er, they weren't a couple… Wiress said they weren't…"

Astrid lets out a bitter laugh that sounds odd in her cheerful, girlish voice. "Did you actually believe her?" she asks in disbelief. "Someone obviously put your sister up to that. I just looked at her and knew she was lying. No, Raphela, I think Wiress loves that man and was trying to protect him."

Duncan nods in assent and takes his wife's hand. "Which leads us to two possibilities. Your sister is either suffering from Stockholm syndrome or Jarvis is in love with her too. I'd bet my money on the latter. Not that I have any money," he adds quietly; I look away guiltily and stare at the opposite wall.

"A lot of people think Wiress is just… a… a whore or something," I mumble.

Astrid shakes her head firmly. "I don't think she's a whore or a hoe or a slut or whatever else everyone tries to label her as," she tells me. "I think she's just hopelessly in love. Like me. Love makes people do crazy things. Hell, I married a twenty-nine-year-old man when I was just eighteen. I had every reason to believe he wanted me for sexual purposes only and would get rid of me when he was sick of me, but I loved and trusted him anyway, and he didn't misuse me. Far from it; he made me feel like I was special. Like I was the most beautiful woman in the whole world."

"That's because you are," Duncan murmurs, kissing his young wife's cheek. Her eyes close and his lips fall gently onto hers. Astrid slips her arms around him and their kiss deepens; I clear my throat to let them know I'm still in the room and they pull apart, blushing and smiling affectionately at each other. I'm uncomfortably reminded of the way Beetee and I used to be and tears come to my eyes.

"Duncan, honey, you look exhausted," says Astrid. "Why don't you go take a nap in the other room? I'll call for you if the baby starts coming." She grins.

He sighs and touches her cheek. "If you insist," he says.

They kiss again. "I love you," Duncan tells her.

"I love you too," says his wife.

Duncan leaves the room. Astrid gets up and goes to close the door behind him; seeing her move is scary because she looks so fragile. She comes back over to me and settles onto the bed again.

"First things first," says Astrid. "You aren't really Raphela MacDanielle, are you?"

I sigh in defeat. "No," I admit. "I'm Wiress. Raphela is my real sister, though. Or at least she was," I add quietly.

Astrid nods. "I thought so." She shifts into a more comfortable position and says, "What's bothering you?"

I sigh again. "Seeing you with Duncan makes me think of how Beetee and I used to be. The way I wish we still could be," I confess without knowing why I'm telling this to a stranger.

"Do you still love him, Wiress?"

"More than anything," I tell her. "He's been through so much and he's so lonely. All I want is for him to be happy, and I know what will make him happy, but…"

"What will make him happy?" Astrid inquires, her voice gentle.

I sniff. "He doesn't think I trust him because I won't let him touch me. Intimately. I'm afraid if I let him have his way with me, he'll… he'll hurt me. Like the boy from District One did during the Games…"

Astrid wraps her arm around my waist and cradles my head to her shoulder as the tears come. I'm too miserable to feel self-conscious about crying on a woman I barely know.

"Has Beetee ever hurt you before? In bed, I mean?" she asks.

I shake my head, crying harder. "No, n-never. We've only ever m-made love on two s-separate n-nights and… he was so gentle… he was always k-kissing me and t-telling me I was beautiful… and afterward he held me in his arms and told me he loved me m-more than a-_anything_…" I take in a shaky breath before continuing. "Those are some of the most precious memories I have, but now I'm afraid of Beetee because… h-he's a man… and he has a m-man's physical n-needs… when I look into his eyes I can see the l-longing… and… and I hate hurting him!" I cry even harder. "Oh, Astrid, I wish I could give him what he wants! I know he loves me and wants me and probably needs me too but I c-can't! I'm so scared!"

"What are you scared of?" Astrid murmurs, stroking my hair.

"There's a p-part of me that wants Beetee t-too… part of m-me wants him very much… but the part that's afraid takes over that part that isn't when I kiss him or when I let him kiss me… so I push him away out of fear and then he looks so guilty and s-so lonely…" I continue to sob.

"Was Beetee the first person you've ever slept with?" asks Astrid, rubbing my back soothingly.

I nod, still sobbing uncontrollably.

"Were you afraid the first time?"

I nod again. "I was afraid he would d-decide he didn't l-love me afterward, but he d-did."

"Was that the only reason you were afraid?"

I shake my head. "I was… _nervous_. I mean, I'd never been kissed until a few days prior, and there's a big leap between kissing and having sex. I was scared I wasn't… I wasn't pretty enough or… or desirable enough…"

"What made you not afraid?" she prompts.

"Beetee told me repeatedly he was one hundred percent devoted to me and sorry for making me feel otherwise. And he told me that…" I blush fiercely. "He said I was beautiful and he… he wanted to p-prove it to me."

Astrid is silent. Finally she says, "Can I ask you something else?"

"S-sure," I sniff, wiping my nose on my shirtsleeve.

"You were able to give up your inhibitions the first time you made love with Beetee. How are you unable to do that this time? I mean, are your reasons for being afraid of Beetee that different than the ones you had when you initially lost your virginity?"

I stare at her in shock, speechless.

"I'm sorry," Astrid apologizes. "I didn't mean to sound so accusatory."

"Someone tried to rape me," I say indignantly, ignoring her apology. "Of course my reasons are different!"

"Beetee has never hurt you. Beetee didn't do anything wrong," she points out, throwing my words back out me with force much more brutal than she probably intended. "If you just give him a chance—"

"I tried!" I cry out. "I've tried time and time again but I just can't—"

Astrid cuts me off by gasping and doubles over, instinctively cradling her stomach.

"Astrid? Are you okay?" I ask, worry immediately replacing my anger.

"The baby," she whispers. "Oh, my God, the baby's coming!" Her voice rises to a frantic shriek.

"What?!"

"Duncan!" Astrid cries desperately. "Duncan, the baby's coming!"

"Don't call Duncan; call Eileen!" I shout. I run down the hall and scream, "_Eileen! _Eileen, Astrid's baby is coming! _The baby's coming!_"

Eileen comes out of another room at a horrifying slow pace. "Quit panicking, Wiress; first babies are notoriously slow in arrival."

"But she's having a_ baby!_" I yell.

"I heard you the first time," she tells me, smiling slightly. "All you have to do get that hot water that midwives in books always seem to need."

I grab Eileen by the shoulders and shake her. "_This isn't a book, Eileen!_"

She rolls her eyes, unfazed. "Go get Duncan and I'll see about Astrid."

She points out where he's resting and hurries to Astrid's room. I run to Duncan's and find him sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep. He looks as if it's been a while since he's slept well, so I'm initially loath to wake him, but after a moment I realize he shouldn't miss the birth of his child, so I hurry to his side and start shaking him.

"Duncan," I cry. "Duncan! Duncan, wake up!"

He comes awake with a gasp. "Wha… what?"

"It's Astrid," I say, struggling to keep calm. "She's having the baby."

"What?!" Duncan gets out of bed and frantically runs down the hall, yelling, "Astrid! Astrid, I'm coming!"

I follow him. When we reach the room Astrid is in the same position she was earlier. She seems just a bit panicked, but otherwise she's fine. Duncan runs to her side and takes her hand. "Baby, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay."

"How is she?" I ask Eileen, lingering unsurely in the doorway.

"She's fine. She's only about two centimeters dilated."

"What does that mean?" Duncan demands, stroking Astrid's hair.

"It means she'll be in labor for a few more hours before she needs to start pushing," Eileen explains. "All we can do now is keep her comfortable. I'll check her in another twenty minutes or so."

I go to Astrid's other side. "Astrid, I'm sorry," I tell her, kneeling beside her.

"S'okay," says Astrid. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I shouldn't have gotten angry at you; you're right."

"Bu _I _shouldn't have said what I did, Wiress. I acted like I understood, but I don't," Astrid admits. "It must be different for you, given what you went through and are still going through.. I'm just trying to help you see Beetee's perspective."

I bow my head on my arms, folded on the bed, and start crying again. "And you're right!" I confess. "Absolutely right. I'm so confused, Astrid… I wish this weren't so damned difficult…"

She strokes my hair with one slender white hand. "From what you've told me about him, all Beetee really wants is for you to be happy. What will make _you _happy?"

"I want _Beetee _to be happy," I whisper. "I trust him so completely… but not in bed. I wish… I wish everything could be the way it was…"

Astrid sighs. "I understand your wish for normalcy, Wiress. My advice for you is simple: tell all of this to Beetee. Even if you are never able to sleep with him again because of what happened, at least make sure he understands your reasoning completely."

I sit up and wipe my eyes and nose on my shirtsleeve. "Th-thank you," I tell her.

She smiles. "You're welcome."

I rise. "I'll give you two some time alone," I say. I leave Duncan and Astrid and go down the hallway until I reach Eileen's room. I knock on the door and she lets me in.

I sit on the small sofa. Eileen sits back at her desk and continues writing in what looks like a journal or a diary.

"You told Astrid and Duncan who I was before I even came here. You told them both to talk to me. Didn't you?"

Her half-smile is her answer.

"How did you know I needed to talk to her? Astrid?"

"I just knew."

"That's hardly an answer," I point out.

"Too bad. Deal with it."

…

Time passes very slowly. I linger by Eileen's side as closely as Duncan lingers by his wife's. After about five and a half agonizingly long hours, Eileen shoves Astrid's dress up to her waist and spreads her legs, pushing them upward so that her thighs are perpendicular to her torso. I stare at her, transfixed, my eyes moving from her sweaty face to the blood trickling form between her legs. I blink, blushing and feeling awkward about watching something so… _revealing_, and begin slowly backing toward the door, trying to remain inconspicuous.

"MacDanielle, get your skinny white ass back in this room this instant," Eileen snaps without turning around. "I need your help."

Cursing, I stomp back to Eileen's side. "What do I need to do?" Again my eyes are drawn to the blood still dripping from Astrid's body. "And is she supposed to be bleeding that much?"

"No; she's hemorrhaging," Eileen mutters distractedly. She swears once. "I can't stop the bleeding. I just hope the baby doesn't swallow any."

I gulp nervously, feeling very much an adolescent.

"Astrid, honey?" Eileen asks her. "Are you okay?"

She nods, panting and whimpering.

"Honey, I need you to bear down," Eileen instructs. "Take deep breaths and push."

Astrid clenches her teeth and lets out a loud cry as she struggles to do as Eileen asked.

"Ressie, help her," Eileen says to me."

"Is she okay?" Duncan demands. He grabs Astrid's hand and winces as she squeezes it harder than he expected.

"She's fine," Eileen responds. "Ressie, _help her!_"

"By doing _what?_" I demand.

Eileen irritably shows me where to put my hands. "Bear down," she orders.

I do as she says without comment. "Astrid, honey, you're doing fine," she tells Astrid. "Give me another hard shove and I'll be able to see the top of your baby's head."

Astrid unexpectedly puts her free hand over both of mine and squeezes hard as she pushes again; I cry out as she does because her hold is so tight it hurts; I feel my knuckles pop.

"You're doing great," Eileen says encouragingly. "You're almost done. One more push."

Astrid yells and squeezes her eyes shut. Suddenly her whole body relaxes and she lays back, panting. Duncan sits behind her and holds her head in his lap.

The baby starts crying.

"Boy or girl?" Duncan whispers.

"Girl," Eileen murmurs. She ties off and severs the umbilical cord, then hands the slimy, screaming infant to Duncan. He stares down at his daughter in awe, tears streaming silently down his face.

"Astrid," he murmurs to his wife, who seems near unconsciousness, "look."

Astrid uses her remaining strength to sit up so that Duncan can give her their child. She gasps.

"So beautiful," she whispers, and to my surprise I can see what she means. Despite the slime of childbirth still on her skin, Duncan and Astrid's daughter is surprisingly lovely. Her limbs are elegant even as she flails them, making her seem almost angelic. Her head is adorned with a wild tumble of bloody blue-black curls that shine in the light, giving her the appearance of having a halo. I'm shocked when I realize I'm crying as well. Something awakens inside of me, a wistful yearning for child of my own. A little boy that looks like Beetee. Maybe having someone to take care of would reverse the damage on my brain caused by the Games. One family was snatched from me, but maybe I could have another with Beetee.

I sigh. My fantasies come crashing down. Beetee and I can't have a child. I could never involve an innocent baby in the mess I'm in. I can only imagine how I'd react if my child were reaped—and he would be, given my luck—or if I lost him in some other way. I'd never recover. Besides, I'm not pregnant, and I may never be able to _become_ pregnant given what happened with Brozen. Oh, well. At least Astrid gets a baby after everything she's been through.

Eileen shocks me by taking the crying baby girl from Astrid's arms and putting her in mine. "Go to the bathroom and fill the sink with warm water—but not too hot. We don't want to scald her. Bathe her and wrap her in one of the baby blankets I have in the closet with the towels; use this for now," Eileen instructs, handing me a towel. "Keep her very warm."

I nod, wrapping the child in the towel Eileen gives me.

"And put her your finger in her mouth to rid it of any mucus or blood clots. Newborns can choke on anything in their mouths," she adds.

I nod again as Eileen works over Astrid, who has lost consciousness. Duncan's weary eyes dart from his wife to his newborn daughter, unsure of who needs him the most at the moment.

"Ressie can take care of her," Eileen reassures him. "What's your daughter's name?"

"Mildred," Duncan whispers. "Mildred Jayne Longfellow… but we're calling her Millie."

"Ressie can take care of Millie, Duncan," Eileen repeats gently. "She knows what she's doing."

A blatant lie, but for Duncan's sake I don't contradict this. He nods and turns back to Astrid.

I take Millie to the bathroom and do as Eileen asked. She stops crying as soon as her skin touches the warm water and falls asleep while I gently wash her. When I'm done her skin still maintains a pink hue, but it's not unpleasant. I diaper and wrap her in a blanket, holding her close to keep her warm. I tentatively put my lips to her forehead. Pretty baby. Such a beautiful child. She'll make her parents very happy. I know she'd make _me _happy if she were mine.

I bring little Millie back to the room. Astrid is sitting up in bed wearing a clean nightgown, still looking a little faint and leaning heavily against her husband, who is sitting next to her on the bed made up with clean sheets and braiding her combed hair. Astrid looks up and sees me with Millie; she holds her arms out for her daughter as I step toward them. I look at Millie's sleeping face and a pang of jealousy hits me unexpectedly. Astrid gets Millie while I can never have children for the safety of Beetee and of me. It isn't fair.

_You could take her_, whispers the voice in my head who, until now, has stayed mercifully evasive. _Take little Millie and run, Wiress. You know you want to._

The idea is tempting… but no. I could never do that to Astrid and Duncan. Not when they've showed me such kindness.

I give Millie to her mother. Astrid smiles warmly at her.

"Millie's special," I tell her. "C-congratulations."

"We wouldn't have Millie if it weren't for you, Wiress," she replies. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," I say weakly, fighting back tears.

"Yes, we do," Duncan interjects. "You helped give us our daughter. You and Eileen both. We will never be out of your debt."

"Really, Eileen did everything—"

"Wiress," says Astrid, "stop. I know why you don't want gratitude, but you deserve it."

"You really do," Duncan adds softly, taking his wife's hand.

I can't respond or I'll start crying again. Instead I leave to find Eileen. She smiles when she sees me.

"You have a real knack for this," she says as I take off my gloves and run my fingers through my tangled hair.

"I hardly knew what I was doing," I insist.

"Ressie, if it hadn't been for you, Astrid and Millie would be dead," Eileen says simply. "You saved two lives today."

I stop short. "Really?" I whisper.

She nods. "And indirectly, you saved Duncan's as well. You know exactly what he would've done if he'd lost his wife and child."

I nod, dumbfounded.

"And if I'm correct," Eileen continues, "there's someone else for you to add to the list of people whose lives you've saved."

"Beetee," I whisper.

Eileen nods again. "You may think you're a killer, Wiress, but you really aren't. You saved not one but four people's lives. That's more than what most people can say. You've proven yourself just as kind and selfless as your mother, and _that's _what really counts: _who you are_, not what you've done."

"Wait," I say slowly. "You had me come here, and talk to the Longfellows, and help deliver their baby… all of that was to teach me a lesson?"

Eileen nods for the third time.

"That's insane!" I shout. "_You're _insane!"

She smiles. "I know," she says. She inclines her head and her lips brush my ear. "But all the best people are, Ressie," she whispers.

Eileen backs away and grins at my look of bewilderment.

…

The rest of the week passes quickly. Astrid and little Millie are soon deemed healthy enough to go home and the family of three prepares to leave. Astrid hugs me goodbye.

"Remember, Wiress," she whispers in my ear, "love heals all wounds."

I'm sad to see the Longfellows go. I know I'll probably never see them again—it's for their safety. I guess just knowing them for a little while was good; I feel happier, more optimistic, and hopeful for what the future will bring. Beetee _will _come home. We'll be together again because Beetee and I _belong _together—it's that simple.

I spend most of the morning of each day of Beetee's absence with Eileen, helping her tend to "patients," which, to my surprise, are few and far between. The few that do come don't recognize me, and when asked for my name, I give the alias Ressie J. It isn't a false identity—Ressie was my sister's nickname for me, and apparently, it's now Eileen's as well. _J _stands for Jarvis, Beetee's surname, and this is to remind me that my Beetee will return to me.

I spend the afternoon of each day strolling through the district. I keep my hood on so that no one can see my face clearly enough to define me as the victor of the 46th Hunger Games. I make polite conversation with a few passers-by but generally stick with simply wandering. At one of the shops one day I see something odd—a fedora. I've never got Beetee anything, and the thought of him wearing a fedora makes me smile, so I buy it for him.

By night I sleep on my couch with the knife still on the coffee table. I keep a lamp on for Beetee in case he returns early. I'm usually plagued by nightmares, so I spend most of the nights reading and worrying. By day I'm hopeful; by night I'm a nervous wreck. My anxiety increases with each passing day, but it only creeps to the surface of my consciousness at night. After eight days I'm in a complete panic and am hardly able to contain my stress in front of Eileen. Beetee said he'd be gone a week! Oh, Beetee, my Beetee, where could you be?

I curl up tearfully on the sofa, closing my eyes. "Beetee is fine," I tell myself quietly, as I do every night. "Beetee will be home soon. I'll stop worrying." I repeat this several times, yet I continue to worry.

Finally, I drift to sleep, but I'm not asleep for long before someone wakes me up.

Not with gunshots, as I expected, but by gently touching my back and shoulders and by whispering my name in my ear. "Wiress… Wiress… Wiress, love, wake up," the voice I know so well whispers tenderly.

My eyelids flutter open and I sit up; Beetee's eyes meet mine and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. He rests his cheek against my hair and I bury my face in his neck.

"You came home," I whisper.

Beetee kisses the top of my head, my temple, the corner of my eye, my cheek, my jaw. "I told you I would, sweetheart," he murmurs, giving me my favorite half-smile. "I told you I would. I could never let you down."

"But… how? Why did they let you come back?" I ask, staring headlong into his dark, dark eyes that drink me in and swallow me whole.

He sighs. "Wiress, love, I already told you—they had no case against me. It was obvious it was only a formality and that they couldn't care less. They simply dropped it after they got sick of Violette—she can be a bit bitchy sometimes, but she's one helluva lawyer."

"So… it's over?" I ask weakly.

Beetee nods. "Over and done."

"And now we can be…"

"Whatever you want to be, love," he finishes softly, pulling me close again; my body fits perfectly against his. Puzzle pieces made to match up. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember Astrid's parting words: "Love heals all wounds."

Beetee is the one who loves me the most. Can he heal my wounds? _All _of them?

"I have something for you," Beetee says, interrupting my thoughts.

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?"

"It's actually from Violette," he explains. He goes to the kitchen, gets something he must've put there before he woke me up, and retrieves two glasses from the cabinets. He returns to me and places the glasses on the coffee table along with a dark green bottle.

"Wine?"

"Champagne," Beetee corrects. "Violette thought we'd want it. We _are _kind of celebrating, right?"

I touch the cool green glass bottle. "I've never had alcohol before," I admit.

"Honey, you don't have to have any if you don't want any," Beetee says quickly, taking the knife and using it to uncork the champagne bottle.

"No," I say, "I want some."

Beetee pours me a glass of champagne and gives it to me. Before he pours one for himself he sheds his jacket and tie, then unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt. I admire the line of his throat as he pours himself a glass of champagne and holds it out to me: a toast.

"To put it simply, to us," says Beetee, smiling.

"To us," I repeat, blinking back tears of joy. My Beetee, home with me again. Where he belongs. Where _I _belong.

We tap glasses and we drink. The champagne tastes simultaneously sweet and sour. I down the glass quickly and find myself pouring another. Beetee watches me affectionately but intervenes when I try pouring myself a third glass.

"I think you've had enough, darling," he says, leaving to put the bottle, glasses, and knife away. I start giggling. I feel giddy, light, and blissfully, exuberantly happy.

"Are you okay, Wiress?" Beetee asks when he returns.

I nod, still giggling. "I'm fine," I say. "Better than ever. Oh, Beetee, I'm so happy."

He smiles. "I like it when you're happy." He pauses. "Wiress, love… why did you have a knife on the coffee table?"

"In case someone came and tried to kill me," I explain unfalteringly.

Beetee sighs and sits back down next to me. "It's okay, Wiress," he says gently, stroking my hair. "You're with me now. You're safe now."

I look at him, his dark brown eyes, his pale skin, his thick, dark hair, the hard plane of his chest. I lay my head on his shoulder. My Beetee. Such a handsome man.

"I have something for you too," I remember. I run off and return with Beetee's fedora held behind my back. Before he can react I put it on his head. He blinks and takes his hat off to look at it.

"A fedora?" he asks. "Why?"

"I dunno," I say, still giggling. "I thought it'd be cute on you. And it is." I laugh some more.

Beetee raises his eyebrows, more than a little confused by my inexplicable happiness, but he doesn't comment. Instead he puts the fedora back on his head and grins.

"I like it," he says finally.

"I knew you would," I tell him. "Pale, dark-haired men look their best when they're wearing a suit and a fedora."

Beetee tilts his hat back and leans in to rub his nose against mine, smiling adoringly. "I love you," he whispers.

I beam at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "As I love you," I whisper back. After another moment or two the little remaining space between our lips is gone.

There's suddenly nothing but Beetee and me and our two rapidly beating hearts. Our kisses are eager and passionate, both of his releasing what we've withheld for so long. Necessary at the time, considering Beetee's injuries and my fear. I'm jolted by my use of past tense. Aren't I _still _afraid? I ponder this even as Beetee kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, behind my ears. To my slight surprise he unbuttons my nightgown to my waist to kiss my throat and shoulders. I gasp aloud when he cups my breasts, forcibly reminded of Brozen, but strangely this only fuels my desire for Beetee. I'm aching and wounded from the Games, especially by what happened with Brozen, and only Beetee can heal the scars. Only Beetee can save me from myself. Maybe I'm finally understanding and taking Astrid's advice, or maybe I'm just drunk, but for whatever reason, I'm not afraid of Beetee anymore.

Beetee realizes what's happening and sits up in alarm, as we were lying on our sides during our passionate kissing. "Wiress, I am so sorry," he gasps. He looks at my unbuttoned nightgown and with clumsy, fumbling fingers he hides what his hungry eyes devoured earlier. I'm filled with hurt and an unexpected pang of desire twists my insides into a knot.

"No," I whisper, "d-don't be sorry… Beetee, I… I…"

I don't know how to explain my sudden absence of fear or my almost alarmingly unquenchable desire, so once again I press my lips on Beetee's feverishly. This time, however, he doesn't respond but gently pushes me away. "How many times do I have to tell you? You _don't _owe me!" he insists, but his dark eyes blaze with desire as well.

I wrap my arms around his neck and hold myself to him, clinging like a burr when he tries to push me away again. "_You _owe _me!_" I tell him. "Beetee, I _ache_… I'm so afraid… p-please, Beetee, m-make love to me… show me there's nothing to be afraid of…"

"Darling, I think you've just had a little too much to drink," Beetee says gently. "We should get you to bed so you can sleep it off—"

"No!" I cry, tears pouring down my cheeks. "Beetee, love, please listen to me… a woman I met told me that love heals all wounds. I'm so wounded, Beetee… Brozen, he hurt me very badly… only you can take the pain away. Only you, Beetee. I know that now. Take the pain away, Beetee, take it away—please, please, please, Beetee."

"Wiress—"

"Why don't you understand?" I shout in agony. "You always understand me! Why don't you understand?"

"Honey, I do understand—"

"You aren't acting like it! Beetee, please!"

He's silent. Then he slowly reaches for me and pulls me into a deep, tight hug. "Sweetheart, don't hesitate to change your mind," he murmurs, trembling slightly.

"I'm okay," I tell him softly, my heart fluttering madly. "I… I want this. I want you."

"Do you want to go back to my house, baby?" he whispers.

"No," I murmur. "I'm fine right here."

I lay my head on his chest, listening to my Beetee's heartbeat. Anxiety still lingers in the darkest corners of my mind, the birthplace of that voice, and though I hear it try to come up with some snide remark to my surrender to Beetee being in his arms pushes it away. I'm mesmerized by his unique scent—soot and aluminum and water and honey—and deeply reassured by the things that I know are in his head, like mechanics and the moon and me. After a few more moments, I realize that I am completely unafraid.

**I just hope this ending isn't too abrupt… I'm completely free to criticism, as always.**

**Happy Halloween/Wednesday, everyone!**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	10. Chapter X

I wake up the next morning in Beetee's arms, my cheek against his shoulder, my arms pinioned between my breasts and his chest. I smile and move up to affectionately nuzzle his neck, and then Beetee inclines his head to kiss me.

"Good morning," he says, smiling faintly.

I giggle. "A very good morning it is, my love," I tell him.

"So you're…" He clears his throat. "Are you okay?"

He sounds nervous, like I was last night. Of course, all of those fears and anxieties seem nothing short of silly now. Why be afraid of Beetee when he obviously loves me so much? But I sit up in response to his unease and ask, "Are _you _okay?"

"Are _you_?" he insists.

I laugh again. "Are _you_?"

Beetee takes my hands in both of his and in a hard voice says, "I'm not kidding around, Wiress. I need an answer."

His tone hurts and tears fill my eyes. Beetee immediately takes my face in his hands and kisses my lips again, murmuring, "No, love, please don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so angry. It's just… I need to know, did I hurt you? Are you alright?"

"Hurt me?" I repeat, confused. "What… what do you mean?"

"I want to know if… if your ability to consent to sex was at all hindered… by the amount of alcohol you consumed last night," Beetee explains almost awkwardly.

I blink. "Beetee… are you asking if I was sober when I agreed to sleep with you?"

He nods. "Please, I need to know."

I try to recall some instant where my memory lapsed, or some occasion when Beetee was being too rough and I wanted him to be gentler but just didn't want to voice it aloud. Nothing comes to mind. I remember every single minute of last night, and as promised, Beetee was exceedingly tender and so very loving. I don't remember having to tell him to be gentler; if anything, I only remember murmuring to him to not be so timid, that I wasn't afraid of him anymore, that I wanted what he wanted so very badly…

"I'm fine," I say, blushing profusely at the memory. "Really, I am. Better than ever, actually."

"Are you sure?"

I smile and give him another kiss. "Yes, Beetee, I'm sure. I'm as happy as I've been in quite a while."

Beetee smiles back, relieved. "I'm glad."

We lie back down and I snuggle against his lean, hard frame. "I love you," I tell him.

"I love you too, Wiress," Beetee murmurs.

I close my eyes with a smile still on my face. Beetee kisses my forehead and then settles into a more comfortable position.

I'm almost asleep when I hear the door open.

Beetee immediately sits up and holds me closer, shielding me with his body. My heart beats rapidly with fear, and I look up at our intruder expecting a Peacekeeper, or even President Snow himself.

But I'm proven incorrect, to my relief. It's only Violette.

My relief doesn't last long, however, when I fully absorb our situation: Beetee and I, lying on my sofa without a stitch of clothing on and covered only by a thin blanket, our clothes littered around the room… and Violette standing by us, her eyes narrowed, her arms crossed. I remember how she reacted when she walked in on us kissing the day before Beetee left, and I fear a recurrence; Beetee and I wait on tenterhooks for her reaction.

Suddenly, her resolve breaks and she bursts into laughter. A hot blush heats my face and neck as Violette laughs shamelessly, holding her sides and slapping her thighs. "Oh, God," she chokes, "I—I—"

She can't even finish. Finally, her laughter dies down enough for her to say, "Wiress, I was coming to tell you that Jarvis was home, but he obviously got to you first!" She erupts into fresh torrents of laughter.

"Violette, get out of here!" Beetee yells, his normally pale face very red. "Who taught you to knock, anyway?!"

Violette doesn't respond but continues to laugh. Finally, wiping away tears, she says, "I'm happy for you two, really." She chuckles again, then sobers. "But I need to talk to you."

Beetee and I nod. Violette snickers once more. "I'll let you lovebirds get dressed first, though."

Violette leaves. Beetee and I both sit up and scramble for our clothes, throwing the proper garments at each other, and then in nothing but our underwear we scoop up the rest of our clothing and sprint to my bedroom. I can hear Violette guffawing from outside, letting me know that she's probably looking in the window.

Beetee hurriedly gets dressed in what he was wearing yesterday, though he leaves the blazer and tie on my bed. I put on fresh clothes and yelp in surprise when Beetee comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet and spinning me in a circle. His lips brush my throat and he whispers, "Oh, God, Wiress, how I love you."

I turn to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. We kiss, and my heart threatens to explode with joy. My Beetee is really mine again.

My fingers have just begun to unbutton his shirt again when we hear a knock.

"That better not be kissing I hear!" Violette calls.

Beetee opens his mouth to retort, but to keep him from saying something that will get him slapped (or worse) by Violette, I take his face in my hands, standing on my toes to kiss his forehead. He smiles and we hug before Beetee takes my hand and leads me from the bedroom.

Violette sits at the kitchen table with her feet resting on top, her ankles crossed. She wears simple brown lace-up boots that reach her shins, and the soles are heavily scuffed and caked with grayish dirt. She grins when she sees us with our hands entwined and, his dark eyes daring her to comment, when we sit down Beetee scoots his chair close to mine and wraps his arm around my waist. I can't help my small sigh of content. Everything is as close to perfect as it can be now that Beetee's home with me. Where he belongs.

Violette puts her feet on the floor, brushes the dirt from the table, and comes closer, folding her hands on the table and gazing at us with a touch of seriousness.

"Wiress," she says, "now that everything is settling down—" Beetee and I exchange a smile, and he kisses my temple— "we have something important to discuss."

"What?" I ask.

"Your talent," says Violette.

I stare at her blankly. "My what?"

"Your talent, honey," Beetee repeats gently, though he also seems perplexed.

"My talent for what?"

Violette sighs. "Wiress, the Capitol isn't done with you yet. You've done the interview, and now you need a talent to present during your Victory Tour."

Beetee interjects. "The Victory Tour isn't until January, Violette. We have six months to prepare for it. Wiress got home little more than a week ago and has gone through very much in that short amount of time. Things are just starting to settle down. It isn't right to expect so much of her—"

"We've discussed this, Jarvis," she interrupts almost tiredly. "You _need _to stop being so overprotective—"

"I am _not _being overprotective!" Beetee exclaims.

"Yes, you are. You're more apt to do what makes Wiress comfortable rather than what keeps her safe," Violette says. "Yes, we have six months, but it's better to be over-prepared than _under-_prepared."

I feel a pang of unease when I realize they've been talking about me behind my back, but I brush it aside and take Beetee's anxious face in my hands. "I'm fine, love. Really, I am." I give him another kiss, taking his free hand in both of mine, and to Violette I say, "What do I need to do? For my talent, I mean."

"What are you good at?" she asks.

I falter. "Nothing, really," I admit in a quiet, meek voice. I bow my head and stare at mine and Beetee's hands, entwined in my lap.

He gives me a comforting squeezing before saying, "Wiress, darling, you know that's not true."

I expected his protests, so I ignore them, closing my eyes.

"There has to be something you can do," says Violette.

"Nothing," I repeat dully.

"Wiress is smart," says Beetee. "She could detect a force field by _sight _when she was in the arena."

"Really?" says Violette with mild interest. "How? I thought force fields were either invisible or mirrored some kind of background. I didn't know you could see them."

Beetee nudges me gently. I open my eyes and in a quiet voice I explain my trick. "You can't see _all _of it. There's always a wavering square about six-by-six inches in one of the corners of the force field. It's easy to see if you're looking for it; it looks like the ripples of a pound when you throw a stone in."

My lover smiles encouragingly. "And how did you learn that?" he prompts.

I sigh. "I don't know. It's just something I've noticed over the years. But it hardly matters. I doubt detecting a force field can be my talent, and there isn't anything else I'm good at."

"You're too hard on yourself, honey," says Beetee, bringing my hand to his lips briefly before holding it to his cheek. I stroke his face with my fingertips; he's in need of a shave, but the faint shadows on his cheeks and jaw coupled with his dark hair and those incredible eyes make him look very sexy and very, very appealing, so much my heart starts fluttering unexpectedly. I lean in to kiss him. He kisses me back initially, then gently pulls away upon remembering Violette's presence. I look at her grinning face and blush fiercely; Beetee smiles at my expression as well and inclines his head to kiss my burning cheek, giving my waist another reassuring squeeze before gently easing us back to reality. "What did you do for your talent, Violette?" he asks; she gives him her attention upon hearing her name but doesn't answer, seeming uncomfortable, which is unusual. No, not just unusual—this is a first.

It dawns on me suddenly. "I know," I say. "Your talent is healing, isn't it?"

Violette gasps and then glares at me so fiercely I flinch. "Where did you hear that?" she demands, struggling to keep calm.

"From Eileen," I reply quietly, wishing I hadn't said anything.

"_When were you with Eileen?_"

"I spent the week with her," I confess, instinctively moving into Beetee's comforting embrace.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Violette fires at me, standing up. I rise as well and begin backing away from her panther-like stalk.

"Eileen came over the day you left… she said you knew my mother, and that you're her cousin—"

"_How much do you know? _Dammit, Wiress, tell me!" Violette yells.

"She told me everything," I whisper, terribly afraid.

"Damn you for doing that to me, Wiress! Damn you!" she shouts. Tears spill down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Mercifully, Beetee hurries to rescue me. "Don't talk to Wiress like that," he snaps at Violette, wrapping his arms around me and holding me protectively. Silently, I start to cry. "No, no, honey, don't cry," Beetee murmurs to me. "Shh, it's okay. Please don't cry." To Violette he says, "Why are you so hard on her? She didn't mean anything by talking to Eileen. She was alone and in need of a friend."

"And she coincidentally picked my sister!" Violette hollers.

"Look, I don't care if Wiress offended you by befriending Eileen. If anything, Wiress is entitled to know her; Eileen _is _her family, after all. And so are you."

I give Violette a tearful glance. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She regards my tears with nothing but scorn. This only makes me cry more—I thought Violette was my friend. I must've angered her very much.

Finally, Violette lets out an irritable sigh and comes over to me. I flinch when she reaches for me and Beetee tenses as well, but all she does is put a hand on my shoulder, massaging it awkwardly. "Dry your face, Wiress. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It's just…" She trails off and goes back to the table with another sigh. Beetee leads me to my seat as well, drying my tears with his shirtsleeves.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. Shh, dry your tears, don't cry. It's okay, baby, I promise. Violette isn't mad at you," Beetee murmurs.

I doubt this very much, but I nevertheless allow Beetee to do what he will to calm me down. Soon I've relaxed enough to continue the previous conversation.

"What's your talent?" I ask Beetee.

This question stirs almost as much angst as Beetee's did. Violette shoots him an accusatory look and Beetee simply stares at me incredulously.

"Why didn't you tell her?" Violette hisses.

"I thought she knew!" he replies.

"Well, she obviously doesn't! You haven't been on the map in almost a decade! Of course she doesn't know!"

"It wasn't something I thought was important!"

"It's your most defining characteristic, Jarvis! That's like forgetting to tell someone your sex!"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Beetee splutters.

"I'm just saying—"

"What are you two talking about?" I interrupt, silencing them both.

Violette leans back in her chair and puts her booted feet on the table again. "You tell her, Romeo," she says to Beetee.

He doesn't answer at first; instead he removes his crooked glasses and cleans them on his shirtsleeve. Sighing, he replaces them, rests his elbows on the table, and says, "Wiress, I would've told you had I not presumed you already knew, but since you don't… well, honey, it's simple, really. I'm an inventor."

"A what?"

"Yes, Jarvis, she's real smart," mutters Violette. I wince and Beetee takes my hands in his, consuming my attention once more.

"An inventor, Wiress, love," he repeats, cupping my cheek; I lean my face into his palm.

"So… you invent things?"

He nods. "I would've told you had I not presumed you already knew," he says again.

Something stirs in the back of my mind. "Back in the Capitol… before we were together… when I went to see you the night of the chariots, you were playing with wire. Is that what you were doing? Inventing?"

Beetee smiles at me and nods. "Precisely."

"It's nice that you're no longer keeping secrets from Wiress," interrupts Violette, "but this conversation is completely irrelevant."

For some unknown reason, Beetee winces when Violette says _secrets. _I take his hand and smile reassuringly.

"We need a talent for _you_, Wiress," Violette says. "What can _you _do?"

"She can d—" Beetee begins, but breaks off mid-sentence at my expression. No. Dancing cannot be my talent. Period. Violette raises an eyebrow, but when neither Beetee nor me elaborates she simply rolls her eyes and shrugs it off, to my relief.

"What if I…" I swallow over the lump in my throat and in a meek voice I say, "I could be an inventor, like Beetee…"

Voicing my idea only makes it seem that much more ridiculous. Even Beetee looks at me doubtfully.

"Honey, I don't know," he says gently, rubbing my back.

"I could do it," I insist, suddenly adamant. "It's like you said, I'm smart. Not only did I figure out the force field trick on my own, when I was in school I was always the top of my class."

"Wiress, it takes more than intelligence to be an inventor," says Beetee. "It takes… I don't know, _creativity…_"

"I can be creative," I say.

"I don't even know if that's allowed—"

"Honey, there are forty-six victors; some of them are bound to have similar or even identical talents—"

"Is inventing really what you want to do, Wiress?" interrupts Violette in a hard voice.

I nod. Beetee sighs in defeat.

"You have one week to make me something, then," says Violette. "One week. If I deem you successful, you can be an inventor. If not, I'll pick a talent for you."

To my mild surprise, Beetee gets to his feet. "You're being unfair," he says sharply to Violette. "It takes longer than a week to create something from scratch and you know it. You're only doing this because you're angry at Wiress for no good reason."

She narrows her eyes in disdain. "One week," she repeats, ignoring Beetee's outrage completely. "And you better not help her, Jarvis."

She gets up and leaves without so much as a goodbye. A small sob escapes my throat and Beetee wraps his arms around me, murmuring, "Damn, I just want you to be happy. I wish everyone weren't so hard on you…"

I dry my tears impatiently and say, "Honey, can we just go back to your house? Please?"

He kisses my forehead. "Of course," he says. Then he pauses. "Wiress, how long have you been calling me 'honey'?"

I blush fiercely. "About the same time _you _startedcalling _me _'honey,'" I say with a shy smile.

Beetee smiles back and lovingly caresses my hot cheek. "_Touché._"

"Beetee, is this really necessary?" I ask with a small laugh as my lover ties a kerchief around my eyes.

"Yes," he replies. "I have something to show you and I want it to be a surprise."

I laugh again from my perch on Beetee's kitchen counter. He secures the blindfold with a tight knot, careful not to get my hair tangled with it, and helps me down; then he holds me by the waist and gently pushes me forward. He leads me down the hallway, and after a moment, we stop. I hear Beetee swing open a door; we go into a room and he unties my blindfold, removing it with a flourish.

"_Voilà_," he says, grinning.

I take a few slow steps into the room, inhaling with shock.

The room is a good bit larger than Beetee's bedroom. The wall across from me is lined with two shelves—one filled with books, the other with boxes—that almost reach the ceiling; between them is a window, and on the left near the corner is a dark green fish tank with three medium-sized black fish swimming in it. Resting on top is a smaller fishbowl with a thin orange fish about three inches long in it. On the wall to my left is a large shelf that stretches all the way across it; it's filled with dozens of different contraptions, most of which seem unfinished. Lining the opposite wall is a long table with an attached bench. I turn around; hanging on the wall left of the door is a large dry-erase board complete with a cup of multicolored markers. On the right is a table no bigger than a school desk, and sitting on that is a computer.

"I figured if you're going to invent something," says Beetee, coming up behind me and gently massaging my shoulders, "you could make it in here."

"This is your… your…" I can't think of the word and Beetee chuckles.

"Can't think of the word?" he asks, correctly interpreting my thoughts as always. I nod. "Well, I call it my workshop. My sanctuary, sometimes," he adds, as if to himself.

"This is amazing," I whisper, turning to him. Beetee beams.

"Do you really think so?" he asks.

I nod enthusiastically. Then I sit at what captured the most of my attention: the computer. I run my fingers over the keyboard in awe.

"Beetee, this must have cost you a fortune!" I say.

Considering that our industry is technology, many would assume that the citizens of District Three are very up-to-date when it comes to such modern conveniences, but they're wrong. Each house is supplied with only three pieces of technology: a television for the Games, Victory Tour, and any other pointless media the Capitol decides to show us, a telephone to receive all-calls from the Peacekeepers (though they never bear good news), and two electric heaters for the bitterly cold winters. At first I believed that latter to be a kindness, but then I realized that they'd have no one to work in their factories if they're all ill or dead of hypothermia. Though we make hundreds of computers in the factories and know almost everything about them, most of us—myself included—have never used one before, and the cost of a computer is enough to leave a family going hungry for a year. Although Beetee _is _a victor and therefore much wealthier than everyone else, the price of a computer would still be a large chunk taken out of his yearly paycheck. He kneels beside me and wraps an arm around my waist, smiling brilliantly. _This isn't just his talent. Technology and inventing… it's his passion_, I realize. _This is what's been keeping him going these past eight years._

"Actually, Wiress, this didn't cost me a thing," he says, turning my attention back to the computer.

I gape at him. "What, did you _steal _it?" I really hope he didn't, but the mischief in his eyes tells me otherwise.

"I didn't steal the _computer_," he says, "but the parts may have been, um… borrowed."

"The parts?" I repeat, confused.

"I built this," Beetee explains.

"When?"

"I've had the parts lying around since I was about fifteen. I built this shortly after my Games," he says.

"And you borrowed the parts," I say. "As in, you asked to take them and were given permission."

"Ah… no," he admits.

"So you _stole _them?!"

"Darling, 'stole' is such a harsh word," says Beetee, "and I didn't steal all of them."

"Where'd you get the rest?" I ask, trying to keep calm. Stealing from a factory is a crime punishable by execution, no matter what your age is at the time.

"Let's just say that I spent a lot more of my teenage years than I'd like to admit searching through garbage cans," says Beetee, blushing a bit.

I smile a little. "Does this really work?" I ask, touching the monitor.

He pretends to be offended. "Why, of course," he says. He pushes a button on the monitor and flips a switch on the tower sitting on the floor next to the desk, and slowly, the computer whirs to life.

"Oh, my God," I say in shock. The home screen comes up; it's a picture of the Capitol insignia. My attention is drawn to a small _E _in the left-hand corner of the screen. When Beetee said the computer worked, surely he didn't mean…? I mean, that would be impossible…

"Beetee," I whisper, "you don't have… you don't have the _internet_, do you?"

He smiles, takes my hand, and places it on the mouse. "Why don't you find out?" he asks.

Hands trembling, pulse pounding, I click on the icon. After a few moments, a dark blue screen pops up:

ACCESS DENIED

My shoulders sag in disappointment. "Does every website have a screen like that?" I ask, knowing the answer is yes. Of course it is; only the Capitol has such as a luxury as the internet. Not even the computers in the Justice Building have internet; all they have are Capitol-approved programs built for whatever they need.

"At the moment, yes," Beetee affirms. "But watch this." He pauses. "Could you hop up for a moment, love?"

"Of course," I say, standing. Beetee sits down and clicks on the link _Attain Formal Permission. _I hold my breath.

Beetee cracks his knuckles and starts typing. At first what he's doing seems arbitrary, but soon I see he's actually putting in codes, breaking through firewalls… he's overriding the system and forcing it to give him access. I chew my lip in anticipation. Finally, Beetee hits one more key and sits back with a triumphant grin. The blue screen has been replaced by a white one, and underneath a strange word written in colorful letters is a long rectangular box with a magnifying glass on its left: a search engine. _He actually got in. _I gasp before throwing my arms around my lover's shoulders.

"Beetee, you're amazing!" I cry.

He smiles. "So I've heard. Here, I want to show you some things I think you'll like."

Beetee retrieves a stool from another room and gives me the chair. "This is a really old website yet really versatile website I don't think even is allowed in the Capitol. You can look up practically anything," he says excitedly, obviously eager to show me.

I squint. "'Google,'" I read, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," says Beetee. "Strange, isn't it? I've tried deciphering it in almost twenty different languages, but no luck." He sighs, then brightens. "Here's something I _know _you'll love."

He types in another word I've never seen before and then clicks on a blue link upon receiving his results. The screen converts to a white one littered with words in boxes—some blue, some black—and a blue bar lining the top. In the upper left-hand corner in white letters reads _ ._

"What?" I ask, completely bewildered. "What on Earth is fanfiction?"

Beetee's still grinning. "It's quite strange, really. You see, there are some writers who create stories based on previously existing works. Those writers are called 'fanfiction writers' because they write fiction about books or movies or television series that they are fans of."

I blink. "Isn't that plagiarism?"

"Not if you put a disclaimer," says Beetee.

"But still… who would ever want to do something that ridiculous?" I splutter.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "I did find one person, though, but they've been dead for centuries. She's a really old writer whose penname is 'NutsandVolts.'"

"'NutsandVolts'?" I repeat with a laugh. "That's so stupid!"

"You should read some of her stories. They're even worse," Beetee chuckles. "I've read a few and they're awful, just awful."

"How awful?"

"They're these incredibly sappy love stories that could never happen in a million years," he explains. "The man is like a robot and is always droning on and on about his inner angst, and his lover cries at least three times every chapter, and every other chapter she tries to kill herself, and when she does, the man is like, 'No, don't kill yourself! Without you, I'll be forever alone, because what other woman could want a man who's so boring and emotionless?'"

We laugh together at his joke. "That sounds horrible," I giggle. "She must have had to _try _to be that bad."

"What else was she going to do?" chortles Beetee. "It's obvious she had no life. That's why she was so dead-set on ruining everyone else's by polluting their minds with her horrible writing."

I giggle again. "Probably," I agree.

Beetee sighs. "But there is really something I want to talk to you about," he says seriously.

I hold in the rest of my laughter and nod. He sighs again.

"Wiress," he says, "what do you know about District Thirteen?"

"District Thirteen?" I repeat, confused.

Beetee nods.

"Well, it was the chief leader of the rebellion forty-six years ago… it mine graphite… and it was destroyed by the Capitol after the Dark Days," I recite.

He nods again and pulls up a video clip on his computer. It's a woman—presumably from the Capitol because of her plump figure—standing in front of the barren landscape that was once the thirteenth district of Panem. She speaks about the levels of toxicity still lingering in the air; according to her, the area has still been deemed uninhabitable by Capitol scientists. A mockingjay flies across the sky in the background.

I look at Beetee's unreadable face, perplexed. This video clip doesn't seem at all worthy of note. But he's concentrating on the computer again, and then he pulls up two more video clips. He holds the mouse over the first one.

"This is the same kind of broadcast taped five years ago," he says. He moves the mouse to the second one. "And this is the same broadcast done twenty years ago." He rewinds each clip to the beginning, layers them on top of each other, and plays them simultaneously. Each reporter is different and moves differently, making the sigh of the three of them overlapped seem very alien, but Beetee asks me to focus instead on the background, and when I do, I can't stifle my gasp. While the three reporters are obviously different, the backgrounds match up perfectly. When the mockingjay flies across the screen, it's identical to the bird in the other two clips.

Beetee examines me to see if I understand, but his assessment is unnecessary; it's easy to see his point. Those three reporters are standing in front of a green screen. They aren't really in District Thirteen at all.

"Oh, my God," I whisper.

"Now the question that remains is simple. Why aren't those people actually in Thirteen?" asks Beetee.

"Maybe the toxicity levels are too high to even go there," I suggest, still reeling.

"If they were, why not explain that instead of covering it up? It would be a lot of extra work to cover it up, and you know how the Capitol feels about work," Beetee counters.

I pause to think. "Maybe that's just it. Maybe the Capitol is simply too lazy to really send someone out to Thirteen, so they fake it."

He nods. "That sounds plausible," he says fairly. "But I have another theory. You better sit down for this."

I stand up, smooth my blouse, wriggle my hips, and sit back down. "Sitting," I declare with a giggle.

Beetee smiles before growing solemn. "What if they aren't in District Thirteen because District Thirteen was never destroyed? What if it still exists?"

I gape at him again. "_What?_"

"What if District Thirteen was never destroyed?" he repeats in a matter-of-fact voice; it's as if he's telling me that one plus one equals two.

"How could it exist?" I say. "The Capitol destroyed it! How could it have survived?"

"Assuming my theory is correct," says Beetee calmly, "and I'm ninety-nine point nine percent sure it is, District Thirteen was never destroyed by the Capitol. Instead, the two feigned the destruction of Thirteen to force the remaining twelve districts into surrender, and then they decided upon a truce: District Thirteen was to move underground, where it would no longer bothered by the Capitol."

I sigh. "Okay… let's pretend that somehow, all of that is true. But why would the Capitol form a truce with the rebellious District Thirteen instead of just destroying it?"

"The answer to that, my dear, is simple," says Beetee. "The Capitol granted them mercy because District Thirteen had nuclear weapons, and the Capitol was afraid that if the war continued to escalate as it was, Thirteen would use those nukes to obliterate the Capitol the same way North America was obliterated centuries ago."

My head is spinning. The "what if District Thirteen survived?" theory is a popular urban legend among the residents of District Three (though teachers and factory managers strictly punish anyone who brings it up in school or at work), but all of those stories are pure fantasy, created simply to entertain. Beetee's theory, however, is so intricate and thought out… and what's more, it's so plausible, even likely now that I think about it…

At my pained expression, Beetee puts a comforting hand on my cheek and says, "I'm sorry, Wiress, love, have I given you a headache?"

"No," I mumble, but my brain pounds against my skull. Beetee soothes the pain by taking my face in his hands and giving me a kiss. His lips press down hard on mine; I eagerly respond, and after a moment, Beetee's tongue begins gently caressing mine, leaving me breathless and hungry for more. I move into his lap, still kissing him and breathing hard, panting, really. Beetee smiles into our kiss—no easy feat, as his tongue is in my mouth—and pulls away, still grinning.

"Honey, we came in here for a reason," he says. "To work on your invention, remember?"

"Forget work," I murmur huskily, leaning forward and sucking on his collarbone. Beetee groans—from exasperation or pleasure, I don't know.

"Wiress," he says, "if you keep this up, I'll be in a wheelchair by the time I'm thirty."

I can't help but laugh a little at the irony even as I ignore Beetee's comment and continue kissing his neck. About a week ago the idea of sitting in Beetee's lap and not only allowing him to kiss me passionately but responding to those kisses was truly petrifying, and now, I'm about as horny as I've ever been in my entire life. It's almost frightening. But I suppose I should prioritize; Violette has only given me a week to build an invention, and Beetee and I _do _have all night to make love, so I sigh and cease my ardent kissing. Then I stand and attempt to un-wrinkle my blouse, fix my hair, and cool the hot blush on my cheeks. Beetee takes my hand and leads me to the workbench; I sit down and he says, "Would you like to see some of the things I've built?"

I nod happily. "I'd love to."

Beetee goes to the shelf and retrieves a fan-looking device and brings it back to me, setting it on the table. There's a thin, horizontal cylinder attached to a metal platform; attached to the cylinder are eight thin rectangular compartments that look like fan blades. There's a row of buttons on the platform, each of them numbered from one to eight.

"It's amazing, Beetee, but… what is it?" I ask a little apologetically, but he seems unfazed.

"It's like a mechanical accordion folder, love," he explains. "Push one of those buttons."

I press the number six. At my command, the machine spins and stops; the rectangle with the number six stops in front of me and the thin lid slides up, revealing thick stack of papers. I beam.

"That's amazing!" I say again, really meaning it this time.

"I kept misplacing my blueprints and plans," Beetee says, smiling at my praise. I don't think he gets enough. "I built this when I was nineteen."

This seems simple enough; I could probably invent something like this. "How long did it take you to make this?" I inquire.

Beetee falters. "Uh…"

"C'mon, tell me," I tease, gently poking him in the ribs. "How long? A week? Two?"

"About twenty-four," he admits.

My heart drops. "Six months?" I whisper.

Beetee nods. Tears fill my eyes and he wraps his arms around me. "Don't cry, Wiress. It'll be okay."

"If it took you six months to make a file sorter, I'll never be able to invent something for Violette in a week!" I wail.

"Shh," Beetee soothes. "It's okay, darling; I promise. You _will _make something for Violette and you _will _be an inventor, and do you know how I know?"

"How?" I sniff.

"Because you're Wiress—an amazing, intelligent woman. You're capable of keeping your head and loving me and being a good person and doing plenty of other things to me that I won't say lest I make you blush again—" I do blush again, of course, and Beetee grins—"and inventing and whatever else you want to do. You're incredible, Wiress," he says, caressing me hair the way my father would. "And I believe in you."

"You do?" I whimper.

Beetee smiles. "Of course I do," he says.

"Are you just lying to protect my feelings, or do you really believe in me?"

"I really do believe in you, Wiress, love," he replies. After a short pause, he adds, "And I would never lie to you."

"Never?" I ask with a hiccup.

Beetee seems to hesitate before reiterating, "Never ever."

I smile and Beetee wipes away the rest of my tears. "See? There's the smile I was waiting for," he says. "You're so lovely when you smile."

"Really?" I ask.

"Of course," he says. "You're beautiful—the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world. Times infinity. To the power of ten."

He makes me giggle. "Beetee, you are such a nerd."

"But I'm _your _nerd," he replies, grinning and tapping my nose with the tip of one long finger. I giggle again.

"So, what else have you made?" I ask.

Beetee stands up, delighted with my question, and takes his file sorter back to the shelf, returning with what looks like a really long fishing rod. "This is simple," he says. "It rules out human error. All you do is cast it and this—" he points to the hook-like contraption— "locates and seizes the fish with a motion sensor. Ninety-nine point nine percent accuracy."

"Wow," I say. "It really works?"

Beetee nods proudly. "Just don't put your hand in front of it," he warns. He holds his up and reveals two well-healed puncture wounds on each side. I wince, disliking the image of Beetee in pain.

"Ouch," I sympathize.

"And the only other project that's either done or close to done is this," says Beetee, taking my hand and leading me to the fish tank. Attached to it is a storage device with a small bottle of fish food at one end. "Normally it deposits fish food into the tank," Beetee explains, "but the cod I'm using as test subjects don't eat fish food. They eat bread. At least, that's what I've been feeding them."

"Then who eats fish food?"

"Him," says Beetee, gesturing to the orange fish in the small bowl on top of the fish tank. "This is Poseidon."

"Poseidon?" I repeat.

He nods, smiling. "My best friend for the past year or so. I got him in the Capitol; Violette thought I could use the company. I'm pretty sure he's not too happy with me right now, though." Beetee taps on the bowl; Poseidon stops swimming and scuttles to the back.

"Sei?" says Beetee. "Are you mad at me?"

I giggle. "You talk to him?"

"Constantly," Beetee replies. "Sometimes he talks back."

I'd laugh, but he looks very serious.

To my slight surprise, Beetee rolls up his sleeve and puts his hand in the fish bowl, swirling his finger around in the water. "Come one, Sei, I know you're not _that _mad."

Poseidon hesitantly swims up to Beetee's finger and rubs himself against it. I smile.

"That's adorable," I say.

Beetee take his hand out of the fishbowl, retrieves the bottle of fish food, and feeds Poseidon, who happily begins bobbing the surface for the orange flakes that drift to the rocks at the bottom. Beetee then claps and turns to me. "So, do you want to get started?"

I remember the passionate kisses we exchanged earlier, the ones that left me weak and hungry for more. Despite my—now conquered—fear of sexual contact instilled in me by Brozen, I can't deny that I've missed Beetee's loving touch these past few weeks. I step toward him and wrap my arms around his neck, twining my fingers in his thick, dark hair and smiling.

"Wiress, you only have a week; you can't keep distracting yourself like this," Beetee protests, but as I press my body against his, he can't resist putting his hands on my waist. "_Wiress_," he says again.

I smile irresistibly, the way my sister used to when she wanted to seduce a man, and bat my eyelashes. I don't say anything; I don't have to. Beetee moans involuntarily.

"Wiress, no," he says firmly.

I cock my head. Then I stroke his cheek with my fingertips.

"No," he repeats in a weaker voice.

I incline my head in the opposite direction and kiss the spot just below his ear. Something about that spot makes him shiver. His resolve crumbles and he puts his hands under my knees, lifting me in his arms.

"You're a surprisingly bawdy little wench," he teases.

I laugh. "I try to be," I reply even as my lover takes me to bed.

**The remainder of this chapter will be in **_**next **_**chapter; this chapter was too long. :P**


	11. Chapter XI

**This is **_**not **_**a new chapter; last chapter was too long, so I split it in half. :) But now that I have your attention, I have edited _Breathe_, so go read it! :3**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**

"You're beautiful," Beetee murmurs dreamily after our lovemaking, gently tracing the long length of my spine.

I lay across his chest, playfully nuzzling his neck. I giggle at his words but don't respond; I'm so mellow everything seems amusing to me.

Beetee sits up with a sigh, which puts me in a sitting position as well. "Is there anything else you feel you need to do before we go back to the workshop?" he asks.

I falter, unwilling to throw myself into such an endeavor just yet. "Maybe take a nap," I say, curling up at his side, but Beetee puts his hands under me and sits me up, keeping his hands firmly on my shoulders.

"Wiress, this isn't like you. There's a reason you're procrastinating," he says.

"I'm not procrastinating," I mutter, looking away, but Beetee puts a finger under my chin and turns my face to his, forcing me to look into his eyes—without his glasses there's no barrier between those dark, dark eyes and mine. His gaze is, as usual, penetrating.

"Yes, you are. What's wrong, Wiress?" Beetee asks. I sigh and he cups my cheek. "You can talk to me, you know," he adds softly.

"Maybe this inventing thing isn't such a good idea," I confess.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just… I don't think I can do it," I say. "No, scratch that—I _know _I can't do it. It's too much. I've done it again; I've gotten myself into another situation over which I have no control."

"So you're giving up?" asks Beetee, raising an eyebrow.

"No," I say, "not 'giving up,' per se. Just taking control."

"Wasn't this _your _idea?"

"Well, yes, but…I never would've even considered it had I not learned it was what _you _did. I thought the two of us doing the same thing would be neat, but…" I sigh. "You were right. I'm not cut out for this. I don't know why," I add, smothering his objections, "I'm incessantly throwing myself into uncontrollable situations and expecting to come out on top every time. Sometimes I wish I were the kind of person who knows to call it quits before she fails."

Beetee stares at me for a full sixty seconds. "Why the hell would you ever want something like that?" he finally says. "I'm sorry for swearing at you and I apologize in advance for what I'm about to say, but that is what out a doubt the stupidest and most ridiculous thing that has ever come out of your mouth." He takes my face in his hands and caresses my cheeks with his thumbs. "Wiress, you've faced and conquered all of your worst fears in less than a month. You take on every new day as a challenge to overcome, and you always overcome every obstacle thrown at you. You're so intelligent and determined, and I _love _that about you. You're lovely and sweet and gentle and so passive that this streak of determination seems almost out of character, but think of where you'd be if you _didn't _have it. You would've given up on me a long time ago, and I wouldn't have blamed you in the least. You wouldn't have made it out of the arena. You wouldn't still be _you_, Wiress. No one comes out of the arena unchanged, but you still put everyone before yourself, and every day I look at you and I wonder how I deserve such an amazing, wonderful person."

"Oh, Beetee," I sigh, "that's very sweet, but I just don't think I can—"

"That's it!" he interrupts; this is so out of character I simply gape at him. "Wiress MacDanielle, I will not sit here and let you talk about yourself as if you're nothing! I won't let you just give up! You've made it this far; why stop now? If inventing is what you want to do, then do it! You're a lot of things, Wiress, but you are _not _a quitter. You _can _do this and you _will _do this even if we have to work at it day and night for this next one hundred and sixty-five hours. _I believe in you. _I've never believed in _anyone_, period, but I believe in _you_, Wiress. You _can _do this. And if that isn't enough to convince you, think about this: your family wouldn't want you to give up, now, would they?"

"No," I reply, shuddering once in his arms. He holds me closer.

"The only thing I want now," says Beetee, "is for you to believe in yourself as much as your father and Raphela believed in you, as much as _I _believe in you—which is a lot, by the way. I love you, Wiress, and I want you to be happy."

"I'm happy," I say softly, touching his face.

"Then smile for me," he says, putting his hand over mine and lightly squeezing my fingers.

I do, albeit weakly, and he smiles back. "Now, you aren't still going to quit, are you?"

"No," I say determinedly, feeling silly that I had ever considered such a thing. I get out of bed. "In fact, let's get started right now."

"Uh, Wiress? Maybe we could get dressed first?" Beetee suggests.

I blush. "Good idea," I say.

"It's what I'm here for," he replies with a grin.

So I get to work.

I lie on my stomach in the middle of the workshop, sketching blueprints with a pencil. Beetee lies on his back next to me, his legs crossed, his eyes closed.

"What do they grow in District Eleven?" I ask.

"Everything," Beetee replies without opening his eyes.

"What about fruit? Do they grow fruit?"

"Of course."

"Stone fruit? With pits? You know, peaches, nectarines, et cetera?"

"Yes. Why?"

"How do they get the pits out? I mean, don't they sell pit-less fruit in the Capitol?"

"I assume they get the pits out with their hands," says Beetee.

"What if they used a machine?"

"That'd be tricky," he replies. "Something strong enough to expel the pit without difficulty but gentle enough so as not to bruise the fruit. Do you think you could do it?"

I sit back on my heels and put my hands on my hips, giving him a look. Beetee opens his eyes, sees my expression, and laughs. "Just checking," he says.

"I'll need fruit," I say, "maybe peaches. Could you get me about ten or twenty?"

"Sure," says Beetee, getting to his feet. "Anything else you need?"

"Yes," I say, standing up as well and turning to him. I put my arms around his neck.

"Not again," Beetee groans. "That's three times in less than twenty-four hours. I'm only human, Wiress."

"I don't want that. I just want you to kiss me goodbye."

"Sure," he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I'm pretty sure you remember the _last _time we kissed and what happened _then_."

"Shut up and kiss me."

He does, keeping his kiss light and teasing. When I lean in, he breaks it off, grinning, and taps my nose.

"Make that a wheelchair by the time I'm _twenty-six_," he says.

"So? That's almost six months of walking I'm giving you."

"Seven," Beetee corrects.

"Seven?" I ask. "I thought your birthday was in January."

"No. Why did you think that?"

"Your middle name is Janus—the root for the name of the month of January," I explain.

"I know. A lot of people assume my birthday is in January, but it's in February," Beetee says.

"When in February?"

"The fourteenth."

I pause. "Isn't that…"

"Saint Valentine's Day?" Beetee finishes with a wry smile. "Yes, it is. Ironic, huh?"

"How?" I ask.

Beetee doesn't answer; instead he grabs me and gives me another kiss, one that sends a shiver from my head to my toes. My heart starts fluttering madly, like beating insect wings.

Too soon Beetee breaks off the kiss. I sigh and he laughs.

"Wheelchair," he teases, poking me in the ribs. I poke him back, though I'm sure to be gentle; the scars and bruises inflicted upon him the night before the Games are still tender, and I don't want to hurt him. Beetee gives my cheek another kiss and slips his arms around my waist, squeezing me lightly. "I love you," he says.

"I love you too," I reply, smiling.

Beetee leaves and I continue sketching. Soon I gather a few pieces of metal, some wire, and a couple of batteries and begin tinkering, my hair pulled back into a hasty braid. Beetee returns with the peaches and takes it upon himself to eat one while I work. I think he just needs something to do with his mouth to keep himself from giving any suggestions—I can tell by his pained expression—but when he reaches for a fourth one, I intervene, saying that if he doesn't stop eating my test subjects, _I'll _start eating _his_, though the idea of eating raw cod is unappetizing, especially since they're still alive.

At midnight, Beetee suggest I go to bed; when I ignore him he simply picks me up and takes me to the bedroom, but when I throw my arms around him, he gently pulls away.

"Wiress, honey, when I said 'go to bed,' I meant we _sleep. _We have to sleep sometime," he says.

I wrap my arms around him again. "Please?"

"You are female through and through, Wiress. Ruled by your hormones." I blush and he chuckles.

"But Beetee," I say, "we can sleep later. Why not make love now?"

"Because you're wearing me out, Wiress," he says, smiling apologetically.

"But Beetee, I'm not afraid of you anymore…" I trail off at his expression, realizing I haven't told him.

"You were afraid of me?" he asks softly.

"Not of you specifically," I correct, frantic to rectify my mistake. "Just because you're male… oh, Beetee, don't look at me like that," I plead upon seeing his hurt expression. I take his face in my hands. "Beetee, love, don't look so dejected. I love you, I've always loved you, and I always will love you."

Beetee wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a deep hug. "You know I would never ever dream of hurting you, right?" he murmurs against my ear.

I nod. "Never."

"Precisely. I love you more than anything. I want to keep you safe and happy. I'll always take care of you and make you laugh when you feel like you want to cry. If I ever make you uncomfortable, just talk to me about it, and we can work it out together. Can you do that for me, Ressie? Please?"

His words are already so heartfelt, but I'm even more moved by his use of my sister's nickname for me.

"Beetee," I whisper, tearing up, "my sister used to call me that. Ressie."

"I'm sorry," he says hastily.

"No, no, don't be," I say, smiling through my tears. "You can call me that; Eileen does. It's nice… I mean, Raphela's gone, but her memory is still alive, through me. So are my parents', and Raellen's, and even Marcelle's… I guess what I'm saying is, I'm their legacy. They died for me, Beetee, and I suppose it's my duty now to live for them."

Beetee takes my face in his hands, smiling, and kisses each of my wet eyelids, then my cheeks, behind my ears, the corners of my lips. "You're amazing," he murmurs between his kisses that come slower and last long, warm and moist and gentle, placed all over my face, then down my neck. My head falls back and I close my eyes, savoring the perfect combination: Beetee's lips and my skin. Only with him do I feel truly alive.

His mouth still locked with mine, Beetee picks me up and lays me on the bed. He holds himself above me with his arms so as not to burden me with his full weight and trails kisses past my collarbone, gently nipping at my skin; I moan softly in pleasure, twining my fingers in his hair and digging them into his scalp, which in turn makes _him _groan. It's so sweet and easy and pleasant, the way we give and take, the way we pleasure each other.

Beetee pulls away slightly to look at me and grins. "Aren't we sneaky?" he says, tapping my nose, but after a moment he keeps going.

"You know, Beetee, in reality, you're just as hormonally crazed as I am," I murmur.

He chuckles; his breath is warm against my collarbone. "True, true," he replies huskily.

* * *

The rest of the week passes relatively smoothly. I continue working on my peach-pitter for most of each day; by day three, the device itself is finished, but when I try testing it, the peach is reduced to mush. This happens the first few times I try it, but I refuse to allow myself to become disheartened; instead I continue modifying the strength of the machine. I don't throw away the squashed peaches—scrambled doesn't mean inedible—but instead find something wonderful to do with them. I remember that, on Parcel Day of the 36th and 38th Games—the victories of Violette and Beetee, respectively—my mother was able to purchase peaches—which are normally very expensive, as they're imported all the way from District Eleven—and make peach cobbler for us. It was probably the best thing I'd ever tasted, so I tried to make it last, but it was always gone within a few days. I find a cookbook on Beetee's bookshelf with a recipe for peach cobbler inside, so I use the peaches my pitting device demolished to make cobbler. It takes a few tries, but I soon make a batch I deem worthy of being eaten. The problem is, I keep destroying peaches with my machine, so I keep having to make more cobbler. I make a batch for Violette (she doesn't answer when I knock on the door, so I leave it on the doorstep; when I check a few hours later, it's gone), for Eileen and the Longfellows (I leave them in Eileen's kitchen, as she's busy, and give instructions to give one to Astrid and Duncan, as I don't know where they live), but when I keep squashing peaches, I keep making more cobbler, so Beetee and I end up eating most of it. In my opinion, it's not as good as when my mother made it, but Beetee likes it. Although it _is _tasty, I eventually get sick of it, and I think Beetee does too, but he doesn't say this, of course; he says he likes it because it relaxes him and helps him sleep—on the nights I allow him to sleep, of course. I feel intensely guilty about this, because I really _am _exhausting him, but my need for him is too great to ignore. Beetee is always a willing participant once I've succeeded in arousing him—which never takes long—and constantly teases me about my guilt come morning; as promised, he makes me laugh as well, even when he jokes about making me pay for eventually crippling him.

I _do _pay dearly when I receive a phone call five days into my allotted seven, however.

Beetee and I are at my house; I've run out of clean clothes at his and have decided to get some to leave with him, as I _am _going to be spending a lot of my time at his house. The phone rings just as I'm making my selections and Beetee gets it for me.

"Hello?" he answers. He listens for a moment, then says, "Yes, you can talk to Wiress." He pauses again. "Who's this? Oh, this is Beetee, her inventing partner slash sex slave." He looks at me and grins.

My face turns blood red and I snatch the phone away from Beetee, who starts laughing.

"Hello?" I ask, still blushing furiously.

"I take it you're doing well?" asks Eileen; I can't see her face, but I know she's smirking, which only makes me blush redder.

"I'm doing fine," I say, smiling; despite my embarrassment, I'm delighted to hear from her. "I brought something for you; did you get it?"

"I did and it was delicious," she replies. "I gave Astrid and Duncan theirs and they said the same thing."

"How are they?"

"They're fine. Astrid's been here a few times; she says Millie's doing really well."

"I'm glad."

Eileen pauses. "Ressie? I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have to go."

I sigh; with her busy schedule, I knew Eileen wouldn't be able to talk long. "Okay. I'll come by as soon as I can. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Wiress. I hope to see you soon."

She hangs up; I do the same before turning to Beetee. He's still laughing. I hit him in the shoulder as hard as I can, but he only flinches, grinning.

"Was that supposed to hurt?" he asks.

"How could you say something like that?!"

"I was only joking," he says.

"I don't care! That was humiliating!" I turn away from him and face the wall, scowling.

Beetee places his hands on my shoulders, massaging them gently. "Wiress, you aren't really mad at me, are you?" His hands migrate to my hips. I shiver involuntarily. "Wiress, I'm sorry," he murmurs in my ear, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"Well, you did," I mutter, still annoyed and refusing to allow him to win me over so easily. "I've had enough humiliation for a lifetime. Everyone thinks I'm a slut and now Eileen probably does too." I pull away again but Beetee catches me by the waist, turning me to face him.

"Ressie, love, you know I didn't mean it like that. Eileen thinks nothing less of you. I wouldn't have said anything of the sort had I not assumed you'd play along. I wasn't trying to make Eileen or anyone think you're a slut. I was just teasing, honestly. For making you uncomfortable, I'm sorry." He tilts my chin up so that we're eye-to-eye. He gently strokes my throat and cups the back of my head, sending more shivers through me. "Do you forgive me, Wiress?"

Of course I do. His smile is enough to win me over and he knows it. I want to stay mad at him because of how awful his comment was, but I can't; my lips turn up slightly at the corners and Beetee's smile becomes one of triumph.

"Damn you for cheering me up," I mumble.

"That's my girl," he says, giving me a kiss. "So, how's your peach-pitter coming along?"

I tell him the truth as I take my bag of clothes to his house: that it's coming along quite nicely, and all I really need to do is correctly calibrate the strength of the device so that I can pit peaches without murdering them.

I spend the last two days of the week Violette allotted to me working quickly and efficiently, coming out of the workshop only to eat dinner and go to bed. Though it obviously makes him a little uneasy, Beetee doesn't interfere with my sporadic eating and sleeping habits, probably because he wants me to succeed as much as I do. On day seven I pull an all-nighter; Beetee stays up as well to watch me, and finally, at five thirty-six in the morning, I place a peach in my machine and turn it on. We hold our breath. And then the peach is spat back out; except for the hole where the pit was extracted, it's in one piece.

"Yes!" I scream in delight, jumping up. "Yes!"

Beetee stands up as well, grinning broadly, and I fling myself into his arms, jumping up and down in excitement. "I am so proud of you, Wiress," he says. "I told you that you could do it!"

"I actually did it, Beetee! I did it!"

"I knew you could!"

"But I actually _did_—can you believe it?"

"Yes! I knew you could do it, Wiress!"

We continue this celebration for what feels like hours, dancing around the workshop and laughing. We forget that we're—or at least, he's—supposed to be intelligent inventors who have completed a contraption thousands of times before. We've finally expelled all of our childish glee by six o'clock, and then, exhausted, we go to bed and sleep until noon. We're woken by Violette knocking on the bedroom door.

"Come on, lovers, we're burning daylight!" she yells.

Beetee and I eagerly dress and hurry to the workshop to retrieve our inventions—my peach-pitter and his fishing rod. When we meet Violette in the kitchen—Beetee scowls when he sees her feet on the table but doesn't comment—I get a peach from the refrigerator and, my heart pounding, I put it in my machine. And, lo and behold, it comes out in one piece, just like last time. It takes all of my self-control not to start cheering again.

"Wow," says Violette, inspecting the now pit-less peach. "I have to admit, I didn't think you could do it. But you did. I'm genuinely impressed." Then, to my shock, she puts the peach into her mouth and eats it in three bites.

"Violette!" I cry.

"What?" she asks, wiping the juice off her chin.

"That was the _perfect _peach and you _ate _it!" I wail.

"Peaches are supposed to be eaten, Wiress," she replies gruffly.

I sigh. She has a point. Chuckling, Beetee rises and says, "Now, if you ladies will come with me; I also have something to show you."

Beetee takes us to the backyard and has us wait for him to collect a few supplies. Once he's gone, Violette turns to me.

"Wiress," she says awkwardly, rubbing the back of your head, "I want to apologize for being so hard on you. I know you never meant to hurt me when you spent last week with Eileen. It's just… well, Eileen and I haven't really gotten along in years, and when I heard how readily you befriended her… well, I guess I felt a little betrayed. I really hurt your feelings, and I shouldn't have kept everything from you. I, um… I really care about you, Wiress," she mutters, not looking at me. "And I'm sorry."

I smile. "Apology accepted."

"Just don't expect me to ever do that again," she says, reverting to her normal snappish nature. I roll my eyes, still smiling.

"Sure," I say. She half-smiles and I hold out my arms. "Hug?" I ask.

"No," she says. "I don't do hugs."

I drop my arms and rock back and forth on my heels awkwardly until Beetee returns with a very odd collection of items: his fishing rod, the three cod in a large, water-filled plastic bag, a large bucket, and a small, purple plastic swimming pool filled with ten multicolored rubber ducks. He rests the fishing rod against the table on the back porch, drags the pool about one hundred feet away, and carefully sets the bag of fish in it. Then he goes back inside with the bucket. Violette and I exchange a confused glance as Beetee returns with the bucket, obviously burdened by his load; I quickly discover that the reason is that he's filled his bucket with water.

"Do you need help with that, Jarvis?" asks Violette with a smirk when she sees him struggling.

"No, I do not," he snaps, though he looks like he does.

"Are you sure, honey? That looks heavy," I say gently; I don't want Beetee to hurt himself.

"Yes, _honey_, I think you need help," says Violette, looking at me; I blush.

"I'm fine!" Beetee insists. I suppose it's his pride preventing him from getting help carrying a heavy object from a woman, especially Violette, who rolls her eyes.

"Men," she says in disdain.

Beetee waddles over to the pool and dumps some of the water into it; then he brings it over to Violette and me. He runs back to the pool, dumps the fish into it, and returns to the porch, retrieving his fishing rod. "Okay, now, pretend we're in District Four."

Violette starts whistling.

"What are you doing?" asks Beetee.

"We're in District Four, Jarvis. I'm a seagull," she says, then whistles again.

Beetee sighs and I jump onto the porch; giggling, I put my hands on his head and start mussing his hair.

"And what are _you _doing?" he asks, trying not to smile.

"I'm the wind blowing through your hair," I explain, laughing. Beetee rolls his eyes.

"And you two say _men _are weird," he mutters. He clears his throat before saying, "So, we're in District Four, and we're doing what all District Four citizens do—we're fishing. Normally when fishing, we would have to beat our hooks—and bait costs money, of course—and cast our lines, hoping a fish falls for the ageless trick—which, by now, it probably won't. And on the off chance that it does, we have to reel it in ourselves, and we may not have the upper body strength to do so."

"Not everyone has noodle arms like you, Jarvis," Violette mutters.

Beetee glares at her and his face turns red. "Moving on," he says through gritted teeth. "We could use a net or a trident, but that would be even _more _work. So I made this." Beetee proudly holds out his fishing rod.

"Wow," says Violette. "That's a pretty long fishing pole." She looks up at him innocently and asks, "Are you compensating for something, Jarvis?"

Beetee's red face becomes even redder. "Could we go one day without an innuendo of any kind, Violette?" he splutters.

"No, we cannot," she replies calmly.

I intervene, hopping onto the porch again and giving Beetee's burning cheek a kiss. "It's okay," I murmur, slipping my arms around his waist and giving him a hug. Beetee puts his free arm around me and squeezes me lightly, inclining his head to affectionately nuzzle my ear. I giggle like a schoolgirl with her first boyfriend—although, technically, Beetee _is _my first boyfriend, and he'll probably be my _only _boyfriend—not that I mind.

"Can we _please _get this show on the road?" says Violette.

I reluctantly pull out of Beetee's embrace and rejoin her with a sigh. "Anyway," says Beetee, "this fishing rod seizes fish with a claw enhanced with a motion sensor. Violette, asks me how it knows what it's grabbing is fish."

"I don't feel like it. Ask yourself," she replies.

"If I start talking to myself aloud, people will think I'm weird," Beetee counters.

"As if they don't already," she mutters.

"How does your fishing rod know what it grabs is a fish, Beetee?" I ask to keep their argument from escalating any further. Beetee beams.

"I'm glad you asked, love," he says. Violette opens her mouth and points to it, mimicking one vomiting; Beetee pointedly ignores her. "The motion sensor I've built is sensitive enough to tell the difference between an inanimate object moving with the waves and an actual fish. Observe. Wiress, sweetheart, could you go over to the pool and kick it as hard as you can without breaking it?"

I nod happily and do as he asked before returning to him. Beetee casts his fishing rod into the little pool; after less than a minute it retracts by itself with a fish caught in the intricate, spiderlike claw. "Once it's caught something it returns automatically; no reeling required," Beetee adds unnecessarily.

I start clapping. "Please, hold your applause until the end," says Beetee, unable to repress a smile. He demonstrates his invention twice more, and it succeeds both times. Beetee deposits the fish he caught into the bucket and sets his rod down, taking a bow.

"That's pretty nifty, Jarvis," says Violette, seeming impressed. "You're smarter than you look."

"Thank you," he says.

"What are you going to do with the fish?" I inquire. "You can't return them; they're injured."

"Well, I was going to cook them for dinner," says Beetee.

I smile. "That sounds wonderful," I say.

Violette, however, doesn't seem as pleased. "When was the last time you cleaned the fish tank you were keeping them in, Jarvis?"

Beetee gives her a blank look. "You're supposed to clean the tank?"

Violette lets out a noise of exasperation and I, remembering the dark green tank, cringe slightly. "I take back the compliment," she says.

In Beetee's defense, I say, "Don't say that. He's very smart. You should see all of the inventions he's built by himself. And wait until you hear his theory on District Thirteen—"

"Oh, not _that_," Violette groans. To Beetee, she says, "You're _still _on that? I thought you gave that up _years _ago… next you'll be telling us you believe in unicorns or something…"

"I do _not _believe in unicorns anymore, Violette," he retorts.

I stare at him. "'Anymore'?" I repeat.

Beetee blushes again. "I used to be a very strange person," he says sheepishly.

"'Used to be'? Jarvis, that train has completely left the station," says Violette. She stretches. "I think I'll be heading home."

"You're more than welcome to stay for dinner," I say.

"Dammit, Wiress, why are you so nice?" Beetee mutters under his breath, looking dismayed.

"I think I'll pass," says Violette. Beetee seems relieved and she narrows her eyes slightly. "You two enjoy your diseased fish. If it doesn't kill you, I'll see you tomorrow."

Violette leaves. I help Beetee gather his supplies and I bathe while he makes dinner. After my bath I find a pink dress I brought from my house and I put it on before combing my hair. I pin some of it back with a clip and let the rest hang loose in dark curls that just touch my shoulders; it's been growing back quickly since I cut it before the Games and I don't plan on cutting it again. I put on my shoes and return to the kitchen, where Beetee has finished making dinner and seems to be waiting for me. The room is lit with candles that line the counters; one sits between our two plates, casting its warm, amber glow over Beetee, who smiles upon seeing me.

"I'm sorry, have I kept you waiting long?" I ask, my hands fluttering to my throat.

Beetee gets up and reveals a single white rose in his hands, which he arranges in my hair. "Believe me, Wiress, love, you are definitely worth the wait." He slips his arms around my waist and lets his eyes travel from my face all the way down to my feet. I blush and he presses his warm lips to my burning cheek, chuckling once, and murmurs, "My, my, don't we look pretty."

Beetee takes me to the table and I, remembering his fear of the dark, ask, "Is it bright enough for you, honey?"

He smiles. "I'm fine, Wiress. You worry too much."

With that, we eat our meal. I offer to help Beetee clean Poseidon's fish tank before we put him back in it, because either way, that poor fish is getting a clean tank. Beetee chuckles and accepts my offer; we decide to do that tomorrow. We finish the cod—and it doesn't get us sick, thank you very much—and eat the rest of the peach cobbler for dessert. Beetee gets out the bottle of champagne Violette gave us last week and we finish that as well—today _is _a special day, after all. Today is the day I became an inventor, a call for celebration if I've ever heard one. Maybe I drink a little too much, and maybe Beetee does too, but who cares? Not us. I learned when I was small that there's a time for everything: a time to mourn, a time to sacrifice, and a time to enjoy. I've mourned for all I have lost and I most certainly have sacrificed; now is my time to enjoy, to be happy. After all, in spite of all obstacles, I do have Beetee. I have means of helping all sorts of people and repaying my debt to them: healing and inventing. It seems as if things are finally going my way.

At least, that's what I'm being made to believe.

Whether or not that's actually true… well, we'll have to wait and see.

**And now, for the bad news. Yes, everyone, I have bad news. I made you wait almost two months for an update. Well, now you're going to have wait even **_**longer **_**for another one. Brace yourself, because I'm about to say it, the word every fanfiction reader hates—the h-word. No, not hamburger. (Yum, now I want a hamburger…) No, my friends, the h-word I'm talking about is… hiatus. *evil music***

**Take a few moments to absorb this. Scream in agony. Shake the computer screen. Take your little brother by throat and wring his scrawny little neck 'til his name's Toby. And if his name's **_**already**_** Toby, strangle him **_**because **_**his name is Toby!**

**Now that it's all out of your system and you've hopefully calmed down some, I'll answer the question you're all probably asking: why? The answer to that, my dear friends, is simple: I'm putting **_**Breaking Point **_**on hiatus to work on the prequel to it **_**and **_**to **_**Breathe**_**, **_**Stolen. **_**You see, we're about to learn a lot about Beetee in **_**Breaking Point**_**, and I don't want to reveal any of these fabulously dirty secrets **_**in **_**it; at least, not for the first time. So, as I said, never fear—while this story will be on hiatus until **_**Stolen **_**is done, I won't be off the map permanently. I'll be updating **_**Stolen**_**—which is also written by Kassandra Lorelei—as much as I possibly can, and during the odd chapters (which are written by Kassie) I'll still be writing and typing up **_**Breaking Point**_**, so by the time **_**Stolen **_**is done, I'll have at least two or three chapters of **_**Breaking Point **_**ready to be posted. :)**

**I hope you all aren't **_**too **_**mad at me. I'm doing this for a good reason—**_**not **_**because I like seeing you all suffer.**

**But anyway, I guess this is the end of this incredibly long yet hopefully explanatory A/N. You're all more than welcome to PM me with any questions you may have about SIS or anything else—though I may not answer some. I will not give away any spoilers or tell you where I live. Though I will randomly tell you that I'm an Aries. ;)**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	12. Author's Note

**Dear Readers,**

**No, this is not an update in the literal sense. I realize you may be disappointed—though, after three months without a new chapter, I can understand why you may have forgotten about ****_Breaking Point_****. First, I want you all to know that faith isn't to be lost. In the time since I last updated, I have completed not one but ****_ten _****chapters. :) Will you have to wait longer to read them? Most likely. Also, I have made a trailer for ****_Breaking Point _****and put it on YouTube! :D The link is on my profile. And while you're at it, be sure to check out the trailer for ****_Breathe _****if you haven't! And if you still think about Wiress, Beetee, Violette, Eileen, and all those people, if you still look forward to the day this fic is taken off hiatus, thank you. I can ask for nothing more.**

**Hugs,**

**Wendy**


	13. Author's Note 2

**My Lovely Readers,**

**I realize you may be angry upon realizing that this is ****_another _****A/N instead of an actual update, but fear not. I have good news to share! But before I do, I would like you to go to my profile and click the link following the words "Very Important News!" It will take you to a video on YouTube that is imperative for any SIS fan to see. :)**

**All right…have you watched it? Have you absorbed its meaning? Wonderful! Now I can share my superb news! :D I, Wendy, have joined a roleplaying group on Tumblr as none other than Beetee, of course. ^.^ Technically, I still have about twelve hours or so to wait until it's official, but after that, I will be a part of the post-****_Mockingjay _****roleplay "From the Ashes" as Beetee Joule. (And this is for Obiwan: I literally ran out of surnames and borrowed yours. I didn't think you would mind, but if you do, just tell me and I'll keep searching.) This is my first-ever roleplay, so I'm super excited! When it's official and I've set up my character page, I'll put the link on my profile. :) The link to my other Tumblr, ****beeressequalslife****, is also on my profile. Be sure to visit it for occasional drabbles and other Beeress-ness!**

**All my love,**

**Wendy/Beetee **


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